


Thread

by Spayne



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:40:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25823776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spayne/pseuds/Spayne
Summary: The twelve years after the bridge and the thread that pulled throughout
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 849
Kudos: 396





	1. Fun

**Author's Note:**

> So...I did a thing.
> 
> It's the story behind Fun, which was prompted by The 1 on Folklore. So the natural thing to do would be to use that album as a prompt for all the other chapters right? 
> 
> Well. Its done now.
> 
> As such its non linear and a bit bleak. Don't expect lyrics or strict copies. I've just used each song in order as a prompt. 
> 
> I had meant to wait until it was complete before I started to post one a day, I'm still messing around with four chapters, but I don't want to run into the KE Week thing, which does sound fun.
> 
> Anyway, here you are. Sorry again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 12 Years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is Fun. Well. Its not actually fun. This chapter is the story Fun, but I didn't want to add to the previously published one shot because it was written and posted as a one shot at the time. 
> 
> Anyway, please do refresh your memories, and my apologies again.

When it happens, it isn’t as you imagined.

  
You had pictured another ballroom maybe. That would have been nice. You’ve had lessons now, or would that have spoilt it? Was it the imperfection which made it what it was?  
  
Anyway.  
  
You didn’t imagine it an airport. Or maybe you did. You’ve thought about it a lot. Sometimes it’s a just a shared glance, over before it starts. Other times it’s a conversation in a bar. Or bodies entangled in a dimly lit hotel room.  
  
But there she is, and here you are.  
  
Today you sit in the lounge overlooking the terminal. You sip coolish champagne, pick through the lacklustre sandwiches.  
She hated the trappings of your money, and true to that she sits in the middle of the terminal. Since her you’ve drifted back to the expensive hotels and overpriced lounges. It’s your life again after all.  
  
Its not a bad life either. Its just another version of a life. You've had to reinvent your vision of the future enough times. After the orphanage. After Anna. After the prison. After Paris. After her. After her hurt the most, but you aren't angry. Not any more.  
  
You have a few nice apartments. You travel between them. You move with the seasons. You follow autumn. Its the crunch under foot that you can’t let go of. She hated the pine needles, the carpet laid between your porch and the shoreline. Always so grumpy about the prickliness. You remind her that persistence against prickliness is what lead you to end up together. She still grumbled. You bought her some cheap flip flops from a tourist shop. She wore them almost constantly and after she left you began to wear them yourself. When the strap eventually broke you threw them in the bin and then cried all day.  
  
You aren't sad any more. Not really. Not in the same way at least.  
  
Its a new life but not a sad one. You have a friend. He's a retired pilot bitter from a divorce. You have dinner together occasionally when you are in the New York apartment. He is refreshingly honest, he doesn't care what you think of him and he makes you laugh.  
  
You tried another relationship. Five years wearing a skin that someone else wanted in order to get the life you wanted with her.  
  
You mourned her all over again when that ended and its not been a mistake that you've repeated.  
  
You buy three tickets at the movies and put your bag and coat on the spares.  
  
You designed and built a house, taking pleasure in imaging how fun it would have been to do it together.  
  
Not a bad life. Just a different one.  
  
You think you can see more grey in her hair, but its hard to tell from this distance. When she stood staring at them in your bathroom mirror she insisted that they were silver. You didn’t care either way, they were part of her. Although now that you have your own, you understand it more. You probably understand her more too, in a way that you couldn't before.  
  
Seeing her now, you don’t feel the way you expected either. You pictured anger. You pictured bitterness. You feel neither. Thats not a new thing though. She never made you feel the way you expected.  
  
You want to know why she's here. Who shes with. Where she's been and where she is going. You understand her old hunger to know you in a way that you didn't then as well.  
  
But you’ve been good since she left. She asked you not to try to find her. You never could deny her anything so you were good. You didn't watch her go. That would have been too much. The quiet click of the front door was enough.  
  
You don't know anything from the last ten years. You didn't realise how hungry you had been for those details, or maybe it’s that if anything is part of you for long enough you forget its there.  
  
You've imagined. Obviously.  
  
Maybe journalism. Thinking on it she was never much of a writer. You used to leave her letters around the house, a habit you couldn't shake, you always hoped she'd leave you long drawn out answers. A small disappointment amongst many. It doesn't matter any more.  
  
Maybe she went back to Carolyn. No. She absolutely wouldn't have done that.  
  
Maybe she put her degree to use and worked with rehabilitating criminals. That one amuses you.  
  
A teenage boy flops on to the chair opposite her. Your throat closes up until you see that he is too old to be hers. He leans forward on the table says something, teasing perhaps. She balls up a paper napkin and thows it at him. He sits back with a grin.  
  
She looks happy. Its nice. The younger you might have scorned this. Not the exciting life you thought she wanted. You're different now though, you know that exciting doesn't have to be danger, blood and death. Exciting can just be life with the right person. It’s something you know now.

You scan the crowd looking for whoever is with her. You wonder if it will be a man or a woman, you wonder which would make you more jealous. Are you jealous? You don't know.  
  
A woman sits down at the table. The woman is beautiful. Good. She picks up what must be Eve's bag to look through it for something, finds it and produces it with a little theatrical flourish. She sits next to Eve who kisses her cheek before returning to her book.  
  
You remember her at airports, flushed and anxious. You think that you would have liked the opportunity to know her like this. In hindsight there were lots of gaps. You only had her for two years after all.  
  
She's wearing glasses. She used to hide them from you. She wore them whilst you were out, took them off whenever you were in the room. She said they made her look old. You didn't agree. She continued to hide them from you. But she wears them now seemingly without those old worries.  
  
Yes, it would have been nice to have her like this. You've never wanted children. You didn't think she did. Would you have wanted them with her? It could have been fun. Maybe. Maybe not. Wherever she finds herself now, you can’t imagine that the two of you would have tried this together. Not really. But sometimes it’s fun to pretend.

She'd make you fly economy. You'd gripe about it but ultimately you'd do as she asks. Maybe there would have been a child? A girl? A boy? It doesn't matter. They could have sat in between you. A messy mop of hair curled into her side as they both slept next to you. That could have been nice.  
  
Maybe it could have been you.  
  
You consider going down there.  
  
Maybe you ask her what you could have changed? What you could have done differently that might have kept her. You spent years searching for that magic bullet, maybe she would give you an answer.  
  
Maybe she'd see you and she'd feel it again. Maybe it could all go back to how it was. Even when she left she said she still loved you, that she always would. You didn't understand that then. You couldn’t comprehend it; if you love someone why would you leave them?  
  
The woman has her hand in Eve's hair, idly playing with the curls. You can still feel them around your fingers. Even after all these years.  
  
They look happy. Its nice.  
  
You leave some money on the table and go downstairs. The lift is slow.  
  
You pull your case behind you.  
  
The boy wears headphones.  
  
The woman has a watch.  
  
As you pass the table you let your hand brush her hair just once.  
  
Yeah, this would have been fun.


	2. Lose the one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4 Years + 9 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t panic!! I write Villaneve. That and the occasional badly researched paper on costs law. It’s a story over the span of twelve years guys...they have to encounter a few other people!!

“Sam, if I fall over another pair of your shoes, I’ll throw the lot of them in the log burner.”

No response. You don’t think you expected one. Even if you had said it in your sweetest most motherly voice. Such a rude child. He can’t possibly be yours.

Get him an Xbox they said, think of the peace they said. No one tells you that the other side of peace is loneliness. You go through the hallway into your office and slump on the chair at your desk.

Truthfully the quiet was nice for a few weeks. But it wasn’t just the freshly occupied little boy responsible for all the quiet and all these newly reopened gaps in your life. Why should a small woman in her forties make as much noise and take up as much space as a six year old?

You told yourself it was nice to start with. Sort of. Less hair to hoover up. You finished the laundry pile. Full and never ending once she moved in. She said that the big wardrobe was an acquired habit. But honestly, how can one woman own so much knitwear?

But then time started to drag. You started to think. You started to feel as alone as you were when you first found her.

That was how it was you think. You found her. Firstly just an unfamiliar name in emails. Eve Astankova. Then an American voice in taped interviews. A nice voice you thought. Harried, but nice. The emails came at odd hours of the night, clipped and pushy. Cases like these have a timeline of their own, she never accepted that. Your single line replies that she worked too hard got no response.

Then in a conference room at your office an Asian woman with an American accent introduced herself with a Russian surname. You were surprised. Such beautiful eyes you thought. She asked what you were expecting if not her. You replied that you didn’t have the imagination to conjure her up, so literally anything else. She looked at you funny. She looked at you properly. You couldn’t breathe.

It was a feeling you weren’t sure you’d ever find again.

She was hesitant and then she wasn’t. It was almost like a switch had been flicked. One day she tolerated your casual flirting and the next she offered to take you home.

Once the switch flicked you felt the full force of her focus. It felt good to be the object of someone’s attention again. Warm and comforting.

She gave herself to you in glimpses. Married twice. To a man, then a woman. Niko she spoke about openly, she dicked him over by the sounds of things. He fell by the wayside of her obsession with the woman. Villanelle. A stupid sounding name.

She offered you far less of her. Russian. Obviously. They met whilst she worked for MI6. So you concluded it was all a bit dangerous and exciting, but Eve never explicitly said. They quit working for the government and married, then it didn’t work out. You’ve probed but she doesn’t talk about it.

At the beginning that didn’t matter. You were basking in the glow of new love, a new relationship and a new future. A beautiful woman who wanted you and played football with your son in the garden. Who cares about some stupid Russian woman from the past? What sway could she possibly hold when you were both so happy.

And Eve was happy. You’re sure of it. She sold her flat. She asked Sam if it would be ok if she lived with the two of you. You caught her staring at you when she thought you weren’t looking. You heard her singing whilst she stirred pots on the stove. You know she was happy.

Until she wasn’t.

A woman came to the door, older, tall and elegant. They spoke in the upstairs office for no more than half an hour and then the woman left.

Eve changed. The switch flipped back. It wasn’t until then that you truly appreciated how you had allowed yourself to sink into the luxurious feeling of being someone’s first choice again. It had been a while after all. Thats how she had made you feel. Special, she made you feel special.

But it flipped none the less. She came to bed late, working in her upstairs office at odd hours. Not her normal case work. There were no files left around.

Sex was different. She was different. It felt like she stopped seeing you when she touched you. You thought it might be an affair. Not like it’s the first time you thought bitterly.

It was an affair sort of. It was the woman. Villanelle.

You took time off work so you could be there when Sam was at school and she was at work. You searched the house and found a mugshot dropped under the desk in her office. A young woman in her early twenties. Oksana Astankova. You didn’t understand.

You kept looking and then mid afternoon you found the box.

A blanket. A preposterously garish silk dressing grown. Some other clothes. A ring. Some perfume, La Villanelle? Oh come on. What a pretentious wanker. Who gets a perfume made in their own name? Your hate for this woman took on a whole new dimension.

Then you found the letters and you cried.

Mostly they were from Villanelle, although she almost always signed them Oksana. You looked again at the photo. How odd for someone you’ve never seen before now to have such a hold over your life.

Then you found the letter from Eve. She wrote about a thread pulled throughout her life and how she wanted its single purpose to be drawing her to someone else.

She’s not an extravagant woman. Not with her language. Not with anything really. You’ve never known her to be the person who wrote that one letter, written to someone else.

It broke your fucking heart.

You put the box away at the back of the filing cabinet in her office and slipped the mug shot back under the desk.

You reapplied your make up. You carried on.

One day you came home from work to packed bags. She told you it wasn’t what it looked like. You told her to go fuck herself. She said the woman was in some trouble. You asked her why she cared, she said you wouldn’t understand.

That one really did hurt.

So she left. Chasing the thrill of the dangerous Russian woman from her past.

God you are so stupid.

They are probably having insanely hot spy sex whilst you trip over a little boys trainers and correct shitty drafting by whatever useless junior they’ve dug up for you this time.

You sit in your office and stare out the window into your back garden. She’ll be back, you’re fairly sure. What she did tell you of their break up was that they were too volatile together.

You haven’t heard from her in weeks. Yet still, you are pretty sure she’ll be back.

You try to picture it. Will she beg for your forgiveness? Would she just expect you to be alright with it?

Well you meant what you said. She can go fuck herself.

You make that decision again now. You won’t have her back. You’ll pack up all her shit, and she can fuck off.

You’ll find someone else. Someone who can wipe the taste of her from your lips. Someone to take her place in all your what ifs. Someone young. She can stick her stupid hot young Russian ex wife. You’ll find someone even better.

Eve was messy. She didn’t wrap the brie properly so it went hard when put back in the fridge. She put toast crumbs in the butter. The complaints sound hollow even to your ears.

Harder to explain to Sam. Sorry, darling, Mummy cant hold the attention of the person you both fell in love with so here’s some more instability that you can use as material for future counselling sessions, now be a good boy and set the table.

What you’ll miss the most is feeling special. She did that for you. Thats harder to replace. She’s also funny. She actually cares about the little scrotes that she works with. She lets you watch football even though she hates it. She does the weekly shop. She took Sam and three friends to laser quest for fucksake.

She makes you happy.

You play devil’s advocate; even if she comes back and you decide to forgive her; could she ever make you feel that again?

You won’t know unless you let her try you suppose. Would she be choosingyou over her? You could choose to read her coming back that way but part of you feels thats too simplistic. You hate that you don’t know enough to really understand what’s happening.

You could always just..let her explain. Listen. Hear her out. Such a fine line between excuses and reasons.

What would it cost you, really? To let her try to find a way to make you feel it again.

The door bell chimes to shake you from your thoughts. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to let her try.

The door bell goes again.

“Alright, I’m coming hang on”.

You walk toward the door, checking your refection in the hallway mirror.

You remember that one day it’s going to be her on the other side.

You smooth out a kink near the crown of your head.

Can she make you feel like a first choice again?

You might be about to find out.

You take a breath.

Come on. Be brave.

You open the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fucking hate laser quest. 
> 
> Apologies for swearing in the notes. 
> 
> I hated it as a child and had to pretend to like it so my friends didn't think I was boring. But now I am a grown up...and I'm telling you....I hate it. 
> 
> God that feels good to say after all these years.


	3. And then it was bought by me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2 Years + 8 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, poor old Eve’s girlfriend did not get much sympathy for her plight. 
> 
> Surely, surely some of you have been her before??? I’m pretty sure I have.
> 
> Brutally lacking in sympathy or otherwise, I always enjoy you saying hi, so thanks!!
> 
> Anyway, we’re back to morning (GMT) updates now. Here you go.

The house is like a puzzle, but thats not why you bought it. 

You bought it because it spoke to your imagination of where a real writer pens their greatest works. Well you had to do something with that 100,000€ advance right? And this place was a steal, a filthy rich Russian just wanted rid of it, and who are you to thumb your nose at fate. 

All of that is not to mention that this place is stunning. In one direction its a walk through the pines to a small stone built village which fulfils every one of your fantasies of rural France. Then in the other the pines lead down to the sand dunes and beyond that the shoreline. Most people don’t like the open Atlantic, too rough, too violent. So that leaves you with locals and surfers. Either way, it’s empty of crowds.  
  


In short, it’s perfect.

But none of that compares to the puzzle. 

It was sold furnished. Fine. Saved you a job you thought. But it wasn’t just furniture. It’s was....everything. Food in the larder. Clothes in the cupboards. Sheets on the bed. It was as if the Russian oil magnate, or whoever she was, just went out one day and didn’t come back. You dismissed it as rich people being careless with precious things. 

But then you started looking closer. The cupboards held the sort of clothes you’d expect. Names you know from magazines. Bags you saw on instagram. Jesus even her cast off make up was better than yours. And then you found other things. A cardigan from H&M stuck between the mattress and the headboard, as if shoved aside from its normal spot under a pillow. Shoes from Next, but a different size from the Louboutins. 

Sisters, you wondered? No, why would one wear Primark and the other Alexander McQueen? Maybe one was disinherited?

Or maybe they are friends from University. The daughter of an oligarch spends the summer surfing with her new best friend from Bromley.

And then you found the letters. 

_ My darling Eve, _

Lovers then. How exciting.

They were stuffed at the back of a drawer. Such a shame to be abandoned so casually as they seemed so carefully written.

They are sentimental and sweet and funny and dirty in turn. They are elegant and rude and you burn with curiosity.

The next thing you scoured for clues was the books. You’ve always hoped someone would read your bookcase as a window to your soul. It’s not happened yet but you’re young, there’s still time to find a man who treats you like the puzzle you found in this house.

The bookcase was....not that helpful. Some french paperbacks, some English paper backs, nothing more than holiday reads. A Korean for dummies book with french annotations in the margins. A french for dummies book, with no annotations. Which language was Eve’s? French? Was she learning Korean for .... you scanned through the letters, all signed Oksana, the legal paperwork for the house purchase referred to O Astankova.  


  
Why did you not find any Russian letters or annotations?

You construct elaborate explanations for what you find in the house. 

Oksana and Eve fell in love at University and hid from Oksana’s crime lord father who wants her to join the family business. Alright, maybe that’s The Godfather. You’ve always liked that movie.

Or Eve and Oksana, both careerists, gave up the daily grind to live out their days in idyllic France by the sea. 

Or maybe Oksana and Eve are star crossed lovers separated by something..... hmmm. What normally pulls people apart? You write thrillers not romance.

Then you find a gun.Maybe this is your lane after all. Not completely terrifying but enough to give you pause. You decide that it’s probably best to stop asking questions. Probably better not to keep googling Oksana and Eve, Oksana Astankova, Eve Astankova, Eve and Oksana Korea. Ok. So maybe you’ve become a little obsessed. 

So you focus on your book. The real reason for being here. You put the puzzle down.

Then a few weeks after you move in the letter arrives.

And fuck.

So...Eve left her? What? Why?

You pore over all the letters again, Oksana’s and Darling Eve’s, the new light it shines makes your heart ache.

Oh, Oksana. You stupid girl. Eve loves you, you idiot! She really loves you! You should have stayed!! You should have trusted her to come back. She had a wobble, she’s allowed surely.

To exist in the spotlight of Oksana’s love must be daunting. You can feel it in the intensity of her letters. You’ve never felt that sort of love before and you can’t imagine that it’s the same light breezy feeling you’ve found in passing with the handful of boys from your past.

You double your efforts to find Oksana. Your solicitor is useless and refuses to send on any correspondence. GDPR apparently. As if. She’s just lazy. 

Her solicitor is french and clearly uninterested in English people who can’t be bothered to learn a second language. Fair enough, but it’s not your fault the English schooling system is in the toilet and your parents couldn’t afford private school.

But you can’t find her. You can’t pass on all this love that she doesn’t know is waiting for her and you feel this secret like a dead weight in your chest. 

The day it happens is a normal one. You wake up. You have a shower. You go into the village to get some bits and when you come home there is an Asian woman standing in your kitchen.

She looks you up and down, she huffs with impatience and speaks over a hollow laugh, “Oh please. Where is she?”

Then it clicks. 

Eve. 

_ Darling Eve _

Shit.

“Umm. She’s gone.”

“I got that, sweetheart, when is she coming back?”

“Err, no I meant she’s gone gone. I bought the house.”

She looks at you, and then round at the house around you.

“Why is all of our stuff still here? Why are you wearing her t shirt?”

“She sold the house and left it all.”

She looks confused then deflated then so so sad and this love story that you’ve lived and breathed for weeks is shattering in front of you.

“She...she left letters and...if you wanted any of the other stuff it’s yours obviously.” You say awkwardly.

She looks at you carefully, her eyes more appraising than before.

“You know who I am?”

You hesitate. 

“Umm, there were letters like I said and ...other stuff. I’m just assuming. You are Eve right?”

She nods slowly. “When did she leave, I mean, when did you buy it?”

The letter. She wants to know if Oksana read the letter.

“I’m sorry, I moved in about two months ago.”

She nods. “I should ..” and she gestures to the door.

“Eve”, you start. “I’ve got to pop out for a little while, if you want to....take whatever you want.”

She nods again, “Oh no, I can’t, you bought it after all-“

“No, no it’s yours really. I’m just so sorry....it hasn’t..” you gesture vaguely and hope she understands.

She offers a sort of smile. “Thanks.”

“I’ll just...” you point to the stairs to the bedroom.

“Oh, of course, sorry.”

You go upstairs and take a minute to calm down. This was a lot. This is a love story that has taken over your consciousness for weeks now, you cant imagine how it is for her.

You grab the sheets of letters from your, her, their, whoever’s, bedside table and go back down stairs. 

You take your laptop from the kitchen table, you might be way too into this love story, but you are still letting a stranger into your home. There’ll be time to dig into this possibly ridiculous decision later.

You find her in the living room. Her hand is running slowly along a blanket hung on the back of the sofa and it’s not even your love story but you can’t breathe.

“Um, Eve? Sorry to interrupt, here are the ....here I’ll put them here.”

“Thank you, really.”

“No, its fine. Really. Ok, so I’ll go then.” 

She smiles and she looks like she going to cry. 

Its all too much. 

You have to say something.

“Look, you don’t know me, but I feel like i know you, both of you, and I just…I know you still love each other, so, I just hope you can find her and tell her. Sorry if thats like way too intrusive but ….” You trail off. 

She smiles at you, indulgently perhaps, and wipes a thumb under one eye. You don’t see the tear but you know it was there.

“Thanks, hate to tell you though. Its not always enough.”

Shit.

“Well, good luck, still.”

She smiles as you leave.

When you get back to the house, the letters are gone, so is the blanket, a few pieces of Oksana’s clothes and the Korean book. 

Love isn’t always enough, she said. 

Looking around this house, thinking of those letters, you don’t see how that could ever possibly be true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixy was of course correct that this is a cottagecore album, so where else could they have lived for those two years?
> 
> Plus my feelings on all things French are well documented. The French Atlantic coast is always an unexpected delight.
> 
> Anyway, for a gentler reaction to Folklaw, go away and read Cottagecore. Pfft. As if you haven’t already.


	4. Side door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4 Years + 10 months
> 
> Just to warn you there’s a fair amount of chat about self loathing in this chapter so if that’s a thing for you, you may wish to skip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it turns out I have a new favourite thing, people predicting what could happen in the story to go with each song. 
> 
> All I can say is please continue!!!
> 
> Maybe I’ll do an awards post at the end where the most correct(ish) answers gets a prize. 
> 
> To clarify, the prize will be glory not...you know...an actual prize - I just bought an air conditioning unit and will be feeding my family baked beans for the rest of the month to pay for it.
> 
> So no money for actual prizes, unless you’d like a pot of beans? We do get the posh ones that go straight in the microwave...don’t know if that will help motivate anyone?

It started in a bathroom, so there is a certain symmetry to it ending in one too.

The restaurant is nice enough that not-crying, and you definitely are not crying, in the bathroom isn’t as shit as it might be. The toilet seats are wooden. That’s quite nice you suppose.

Jesus. How did you end up here? All dressed up, sitting in a restaurant bathroom and working very hard to remain not-crying.

You know how.

Desperation to see something that wasn’t there. Hope, she’d have called it. You shove that unhelpful thought aside. She always surprised you with what an optimist she was. God she was annoying.

See, you’re thinking in the past tense already. You are moving on. Well done.

It was the long lead up which caused this. That’s what made you desperate to see what clearly wasn’t there.   


  
You were starving for her. You don’t think even you realised how much.

Six weeks of nothing. Just you, sitting in an apartment with the files Carolyn provided whilst you looked for something, anything to help find her.  
  


Not the flare and fun from her kills from before. They started angry, all fury and blood and ended cold and efficient. Then they stopped. Just nothing.

You know that it’s her. The note and all the ring fingers, all left for you. You think that she wants you to see but not to find. Or at least she wants you to work to find her. To earn it.

_Sorry, baby._

All those weeks looking at her hand writing in that note. The delicate loops and swirls. The same as the letters in the bottom of your case. The same but different.

It was awful. To know she was close but not be able to see or touch.

You imagined what it would be like. You’d see something, some clue, some trace of her to follow. Maybe you could get there just in the nick of time. Just at the right moment to save her from....from what? The life you pushed her back into?

God. How fucking depressing that thought was.

Despite that, when the break came you seized on it.

Of all things, it was a careless login to one of her old instagram accounts at 3am on a Tuesday. By the time you woke, Carolyn had already secured access to bank records and email. Thank god for the worlds decent into authoritarianism, right?  
  


You had an address. Finally. The old instinct was there. You considered just turning up on her door step but something gave you pause. Research first. Gain the upper hand. Keep control.

So you looked closer. You drank it all in gladly. A Netflix account, two profiles, did she keep yours? You couldn’t help the spring of ...something, at the thought. 

She bought some new running shoes last month. Purchases from Net-a-Porter. You remembered her in Paris trying on outfit after outfit in what would have been unfriendly boutiques without her there to guide you, only for her to order it all online from the dressing room.

“What? I like getting packages. It’s like Christmas.”

The familiarity of it all choked you.

Then you found the order for flowers to be delivered to a high school uptown.

J Stevens

You were a thing possessed. Who was J Stevens and why was she sending them flowers? Were they her next target?

  
Despite yourself you pictured it, the same fantasy as before but fleshed out further. You would find her just as she was about to rip open J Stevens’ throat. You would talk her down, would you tell her how sorry you were for leaving, that you were scared and wrong and you’ll make it up to her. You pictured it all with such clarity.

Jess Stevens is a high school teacher. A few years younger than Oksana. She’s pretty. Nice face. Good arms. Straight hair.

You imagined you’d have to spend hour after hour combing through Jess Stevens’ online presence. Then you work out why she was a target and where you needed to be to save Oksana from herself.

It was much easier than that. Almost instantly Oksana was there. Two years without her and now this. Photo after photo. Kisses presses to cheeks. Arms flung carelessly around her shoulders. You burned with jealousy. Two years. Promises of forever. All you have is a mugshot.

Why should this girl get all this?

Probably because you threw it all away. Not a helpful thought. Whatever.

You made Carolyn get access to Jess Stevens’ phone and WhatsApp records. She might be a target after all, this is a completely reasonable next step in the investigation.

You couldn’t help it.

Oksana has a pay as you go SIM card which isn’t registered in her name. Jess saved her number as V xx

They flirt by text. They go running together. They go out to dinner and the movies.

So yeah. You cried then. Whatever. It wasn’t a big deal.

You thought about going home. Whatever there might be left of it. Christ. Was that the first real thought you’d spared your actual girlfriend during this whole nightmare of a mistake? You are such a fucking asshole. No wonder you always end up alone.

And that’s when it came. That’s where this big mistake, in amongst a thousand small mistakes, started. An emailed dinner reservation. You blinked at the name of the restaurant. It couldn’t be right. You checked the date three times. 

A restaurant with the same name as the one from Huchett. The date the same as when you promised her forever.

She knew.

She knew you were here.

She pulled on that string between you deliberately. She wanted you here and she had finally showed her hand.

You were giddy.

You shoved all the sadness and self loathing aside. All the reasons you left. All the times you said or did the wrong thing were dismissed in the thrill of the familiar dance that you missed so terribly. You could deal with all the rest of it once you had her again.

It was like old times. Trying to out manoeuvre her, trying to get the upper hand. You scoped out the restaurant, bathrooms and exit points. You made a reservation an hour before hers.

Then you went shopping.

This had to be perfect. You know how to do this now, she taught you well. You know where to look and how to get the staff to trail along behind you, oh so happy to help. You settled on a suit, you decided to go without a top beneath it, always a weakness of hers. You chose new shoes.

You booked a wax. What? You were due one anyway, it wasn’t a big deal. You wore the ring.

When she arrived at the restaurant she arrived with Jess.

You felt sick. You’ve been on the receiving end of her cruelty before, but you thought you were past that. But you thought she was done with killing too and there’s a whole wall of death in your rented apartment to show how wrong you were about that.

This didn’t feel like her deliberate cruelty though, so often served with a hint of the playful. She was subdued. Jess took her hand and offered a reassuring squeeze and a soft smile. She wasn’t looking for an audience you realised. She didn’t know you are here.

It was too much. You couldnt watch this. Not today. Not with the touch of her lips against your fingers still as real to you as the ring that rests on your finger.

So now you are sat in the bathroom not crying. Wooden toilet seats though. You remind yourself that this could be worse.

  
Theres a clattering as the door from the restaurant opens noisily.

Christ, could the rest of the world just fuck off and leave you to your misery in peace?

It doesn’t and you get impatient. You press your eye closer to the gap between the door of the cubicle and the plastic wall to the next stall.

It’s her.

The oxygen is gone from the room.

You look at her reflection in the mirror. She looks so sad. So lonely. Her tears have the same effect on you that they always did. You want to trace the tracks with your finger, lips, anything to remove the traces of sadness from her. Your hand moves to the lock unbidden before the door from the restaurant opens again.

“Oh babe.” Then its Jess’ arm around her waist. Jess who gets to rest her head on her shoulder. Jess who gets to press a gentle kiss to her skin.

“We didn’t need to come out tonight. Let’s go home, order burgers and watch old episodes of Queer Eye.”

She huffs out a sort of laugh. You know it’s genuine. You turn away, you shouldn’t be here to watch this.

“No it’s fine, you order, just....let me be sad in here for a minute ok?”

“Sure.” You imagine another kiss before you hear the door close.

Jess seems nice. You hate her obviously. But she seems nice.

You think of going out there. She wanted you to come here you realised. Not here specially but to come to New York to follow her. All the bodies. The note. All the ring fingers. All them left for you to follow.  
  


As far as she knows you didn’t. She hasn’t taken work in months. She’s given up hope that you’re coming.

Your hand drops from the lock. You broke her heart, you did it after promising her over and over again that you wouldn’t.

She always painted the story as though it was her that lured you. As if she was the one to start all this. You let her for the most part, a convenient lie. But it was a lie.

It was you who pulled her in, closer and closer and then hurt her in a way a knife or a bullet never could. She fell back into the monster she never really wanted to be.Or maybe it’s that you pushed her.

You couldn’t hate yourself more if you tried.

Then without you, she stopped.

Without you she has an apartment and a girlfriend and she’s choosing not to kill.

She can do this herself. She doesn’t need you to save her. How ridiculous to think you could swoop in here and save her from the life you consigned her to.

You could go out there.

  
Your hand reaches for the lock again.

She’d want you to.

But you know how this ends. The same every time. You’d break her heart, or she’d break yours. Its all the same anyway.

You watch her through the gap again. She takes a steadying breath. Straightens her back and fixes her make up. All so familiar.

Your fingers press into the lock so hard they hurt.

She picks up her bag, takes one last look in the mirror and leaves.

You let the breath you’ve been holding out, and open the lock.

You think of what she told you once, meant to be, fate, all of that stuff. She was probably right. But you know what happens when you give into its pull.  
  


The same story every time, or the same ending at least.

Maybe this is what you can give her. Maybe this is the peace she so desperately needed. You gave her something else before, but maybe you got that wrong. She didn’t need you to stay, she needed you to let her go.

It started in a bathroom.

“Goodbye Oksana.” You whisper the words into the empty space around you.

You leave by the side door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...yeah. 
> 
> Apologies for that.
> 
> We’re heading out of the bleak soon....or maybe soonish.


	5. Aim for my heart, go for blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4 Years + 9 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fine suggestions one and all. Except NeverGiveUpOnMe who is no longer allowed to play. From anyone else, I will accept guesses up to the time that the chapter is posted.
> 
> So...turning to this one....urgh.
> 
> This was one of the chapters still outstanding when I began posting. It’s mostly there. I think. Not sure. But luckily (or unluckily) for you the expensive air conditioner is about as unintrusive as Heathrow Airport so I woke up wonderfully icy but also ridiculously early so now it’s here. Mostly.
> 
> Finally, today is a big day for Eve’s unnamed and much maligned girlfriend.
> 
> Today she gets a name!!! 
> 
> Apologies to QLB, regretfully it is not your suggestion.

Does she hate you, you wonder.

Your first reaction when you saw all this death was that this all came from love. It all feels a bit different off the back of four weeks of nothing but these files and the photographs.

But that is what you do all day.

You wake up. You have a shower. You look at the photographs, you read the reports and try to understand what she is telling you. You eat sacks rather than meals. More looking at the files. Then you watch tv, drink too much and go to bed.

Rinse and repeat.

It's fair to say that in your rush to chase after her you sort of forgot that there might be a long lead in time before you actually found her. You preferred to leap into imagining the scenarios of when you got close. Much more exciting after all. There is a reason TV never shows the admin.

So a month of staring at all this death wasn’t exactly what you pictured.

Ok. Back to basics.

All the bodies have had their ring fingers removed and dumped next to the body. That is a message you recognise. There isn’t a lot of room for interpretation on that. 

You wonder if she still wears the ring? You did for a long time. Does hers now carry with it traces of all these bodies?

You look at the first three. They are messy, brutal. None of them hold the extravagance of her previous work. This wasn’t fun, this was fury. It’s the killing spree she warned you of, albeit tongue in cheek at the time.

You stuff down the guilt and sadness of seeing her lashing out like this. She made these three suffer a little too. The knowledge twists at you. These people caught the worst of the fall out from your actions. It twists at you but nothing more.

You wondered at what point you stopped really caring about the bodies that fell in the wake of whatever it is that connects the two of you.

Not all left dead, but all fallen by the wayside none the less.

Bill, Niko,Gemma, Hugo, Raymond, Dasha, Sarah, Sam and now the fourteen photographs in front of you.

Those are the bodies that you are responsible for. There must be countless others which are hers and hers alone.

At some point that stopped mattering to you. All that you could think about was her, you just cant pin point exactly when that changed.

Back to basics. 

These kills were made with a hot head. If there are mistakes, they would be here.

You look at the photographs of the banker. Stabbed six times in the throat and upper chest. This was a fuck you if ever you saw one. 

You probably deserved this.

The next one is a gun shot to the shoulder and then left to bleed out. The next is a single stab wound to the stomach.

Maybe there was some playfulness to this yet. 

But after those few kills you can see that it started to fade. It became routine. 

That sounds like love. 

  
You never had her long enough to see if what you shared would go the same way. The thought makes you sad, comfortable routine love shared with her sounds nice.

There has been nothing for a few months now though. No more bodies. No more death. You stuff down any thought that drifts toward an answer that she is....gone.There are a hundred other explanations for this silence you’ll explore before allowing yourself to consider that.

You focus on the first kills.

The photographs are spread out on the wall on the shitty apartment that Carolyn organised. You spare a thought for thebright airy studio in Shoreditch that she organised for Oksana. That studio had a grand piano, this apartment boasts a microwave and a kettle. 

You suppose you know where you sit in terms of priorities at least.

You look again at the bodies.

You’d worked hard to keep your focus on other things. You made a life for yourself, one outside of her. 

And now you have fourteen case files and all over again you cant look away.

Whatever she thought. Whatever you let her think. This is not what you wanted. 

You told her once that you wanted both sides of her, that you loved both sides. That is true, but it was always easier to accept the games and fun of Villanelle than the intensity of the love she showed as Oksana. 

Christ. 

You don’t want to do this. She isn’t two people, that was always her preoccupation, her misconception.

You cant explain why it became too much. You cant explain why you kicked back against it. Clearly you have some deeply seeded emotional issues. Whatever might be wrong with you, despite how you acted, you didn’t want this for her.

You remember how she’d wake in the night soaked with sweat, shaking with some emotion she couldn’t name. All those lives she ended took their toll eventually. How has she coped with the burden of these new deaths, these endings which are actually yours?

You look at the photographs. 

A banker, an accountant, an art dealer, a lawyer, a chef, another lawyer, several other lawyers actually. All of these people dead because of you. All because you lacked the words to tell her that you didn’t know how to accept all the devotion, reverence and love that she offered.  
  


All because you left.

It’s not like you even did it kindly either. You chipped away at her deliberately. Hoping for the moment she’d snap and it could be all her fault. You should have known it wouldn’t work, she was stubborn like that.

You look at the photographs.

You trace your fingers over the first three bodies. You re read the note.

Does she hate you, you wonder.    
  


She didn’t for the first three. That was love. She was broken hearted but those bodies came from love. 

The last one? That felt like love too. 

_ Sorry baby _

A goodbye? No. You don’t think so. 

So you eat more snacks and watch the light fade outside. You could give up. You’ve done that before. You could leave all this here get on a plane and go.....anywhere.

What is keeping you here? You know what it is, she was the one who told you. It’s a memory you revisit certainly more times than is healthy. 

You remember cool air and sun peaking in through the canopy of pine outside the window. Mussed hair and all her beautiful skin against crisp white sheets. Her surprised expression at your suggestion. 

You look at the photographs. You run your fingers over the note. This all comes from love. You’re certain of it. You’re not going anywhere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .......they will share the page tomorrow....
> 
> Yup, you read that right.
> 
> Also, a note for any 18 year old readers from England or Wales. Apologies if you have to read this and are then dicked over by our shitty government. I’ll take responsibility for this story but I can assure you that I didn’t vote for the other.


	6. Watch my shattered edges glisten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 year + 3 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And the points today are allocated to NeverGiveUpOnMe who was spot on but regrettably will still be disappointed with the chapter, and an honourable mention to Mdmdmmdmdm who was close-ish with correct POV and theme, if not subject matter.

You like it when she looks. That’s always been true.

You liked the thought of her sitting in the home she shared with her husband all the while looking at you. Your kills and your performances.

Then she started to look at you specificity not just your work. Your hands, your mouth. All of it. A long time before she gave herself permission to touch, she looked.

It was intoxicating to feel so seen.

You’ve always liked an audience, you can’t deny that but it’s always been her attention that you crave specifically.

When you were first together you worried that she might one day wake up to all the horrors of the past. She might turn to you over breakfast and see her friend choking in his own blood in your arms. You used to make an effort to remind her of what you are so that couldn’t happen. To ensure that she’d never forget and hate you all over again.

It’s strange now to feel that it’s the opposite drawing her away from you now. Where she used to find the violence and darkness as reasons to keep her distance, it’s acts of kindness or love which seem to push her away now.

The truth is that she always looked at Villanelle. She looks at this version of you too, but the further behind you that you push Villanelle her attention seems to drift with her.

There’s nothing that you could point to and explicitly say that isn’t right but that doesn’t stop the nagging voice in your head that something isn’t.

So you devised this weekend as an experiment. You took her to Paris. Not out of the ordinary per se, you do visit from time to time. But you didn’t think you could properly wear the mask in the home that you now share.

For the same reason you left your ring on the dressing table in your bedroom, if she noticed she didn’t comment.

You stayed at a beautiful hotel, deliberately expensive and ostentatious. Something so different to your current life together, somewhere Villanelle would have stayed. She grumbled at first, you ignored her.

It’s hard to say whether it was scary or reassuring how easily the mask could be put back on.

Gestures that had become familiar, a hand to hold as you walk, hair tucked behind an ear, unprompted kisses pressed to skin, were all rebuffed. You let yourself stare openly at other women. You watched her simmer at your actions but she said nothing. But she was looking again, you could feel it.

You wondered whether you’d need to do something more extreme to really test your theory. You’ve always liked being right after all. Maybe there would be some satisfaction in really knowing that despite her best intentions it’s the dark of Villanelle she wants, without it you’re just another Niko.

When you got back to the hotel you fucked her on any and every available surface.

Unlike the ease of wearing the mask in public, this was much harder. After so long fucking her as you are now it felt alien to do it as Villanelle. You had to remind yourself that when your instinct was to tease with your tongue, you had to nip with teeth. The hand that itched to gently smooth hair from her face was diverted to settle on her throat. Fingers normally delicate with the damaged muscles in her shoulder, pressed brutally and her hips bucked in response. When you might have given her some time to recover you pushed her into another orgasm. When her hands sought out your body, you held them under your forearm pressed above her head and worked another finger inside her.

She fell asleep and you fucked yourself on the bed next to her then stared at the ceiling when you were finished. It’s your sharp edges which glisten in her darkness. That’s what holds her attention.Thats why she was looking at you again and it was intoxicating as ever.

You continued to stare at the ceiling.

When you woke in the morning the room was bright and the white sheets seemed to swallow you.

The next thing you remember is her hands. Gentle and soft where yours were hard and demanding the night before. But she was firm when you tried to take control again.

Sitting here now you are furious with yourselffor being so weak, for letting her take the reins.

She whispered into your skin all the words that you are always so greedy for. Words of love and praise. Her gentle hands were cruel in a way that she didn’t even realise. When you were moments from coming she pulled your face into her neck and whispered how she’d love you forever, the words so familiar, and you choked out her name into the skin between her neck and shoulder. A few tears escaped and you hated yourself as she kissed them away.

It was too much. It was too confusing. You wanted to kill someone. It’s an urge you’ve not felt in long time.

You went for breakfast and avoided all conversation and eye contact. You both packed in near silence and now you are on the train heading home.

She’s asleep against your side. You want to put your hand on her leg. You don’t.

Too much and too confusing. It hadn’t been like this for a long time. When you were first together there were times like this. Times when you didn’t know how you were supposed to behave. You used to just ask. She was often amused and rarely unkind about it.

You don’t know how to ask about this.

Do you want me to be Villanelle again?

If you only want Villanelle why did you give me what Villanelle would never have tolerated this morning?

“I can hear you thinking.”

Fuck, she’s awake. You stiffen, and she burrows closer. She never lets you retreat from these kinds of things.

“Yes.”

“Are you ok?”

“I don’t know.”

She leans back to look at you. You take it back, you hate when she looks. It leaves you far too exposed.

“Talk to me? Please?”

“I’m confused.”

“Ok.”

“I don’t understand what happened this morning.”

It’s her turn to look confused. “When?”

“When you fucked me.”

Another confused look.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“Yes. But....last night you didn’t want it like that.”

She blushes. “Err. No. Last night was ... different.”

“So if you want me to be Villanelle why are you starting sex like we had this morning?”

Now she really looks confused. Talking is the worst.

“Hold on, you’ve lost me.”

Hmm.

“You’ve been distant.. so I was Villanelle for you this weekend and you came back. So if that’s what you want why are you.....”

You flounder for the words.

“Why did you ...this morning as if I am Oksana when really you only want me to fuck you as Villanelle?”

She looks really surprised. She reaches for your hand and you let her take it. You’re so weak sometimes.

She glances around the carriage before she starts. Despite your confusion and sadness you can’t help the feeling of fondness. A woman who is happy to let you go down on her in full view of a floor to ceiling window in a hotel room but is shy to talk about it in a near empty train carriage with people who probably won’t speak the language.

“You’re both aren’t you?”

You don’t really know how to respond to that

“Last night was good, right? And so was this morning? So why can’t we have both?”

You shake your head. “You’ve been distant at home. So I was Villanelle for you and then you weren’t anymore.”

She looks at you, seemingly weighing up whether or not to say something.

She settles on, “I haven’t meant to be. I’m sorry.”

You nod and look out the window.

“If you want me to be Villanelle...I can be again”

She squeezes your hand.

“I want you to be whatever you want to be. I love all of you, I want all of you.”

You keep looking out the window.

“Oksana, look at me?”

You do.

Her voice is quiet.

“We can have sex..like last night. Or like this morning. We just do what feels right at the time. It’s not always a grander statement about which part of you I like better.”

You nod and turn away. There’s something missing here. Something she isn’t saying and you don’t know how to construct the words which might prompt her to reveal it.

It’s a reasonable response. Probably. But it feels like a dismissal too. Like she’s addressed the symptom and now thats resolved the cause is irrelevant. Something still doesn’t make sense to you.

“I’m sorry I upset you. Next time if you aren’t into something just tell me.”

You turn then to give her a level stare.

“You know I was into it.”

She smiles, probably relieved to have moved the conversation into more familiar waters.

She puts a hand on your leg and squeezes gently before snuggling into your side again.

You let her sink back into you as you watch the countryside pass outside the window.

She’s looking again, for now at least, and perhaps that’s enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am, of course, accepting lessons from anyone who can teach me to write sex that isn’t sad. 
> 
> Seriously though, im getting a complex about it. Like, is it coming from me? Is it a real life vibe I give off? Lots of room for horrible self analysis there, luckily I’ve got a two hour meeting today where I plan to play a minor role whilst I internally stress out about all that. Fun.
> 
> Anyway, if you've stuck with me for however many words of sadness, and well done if you have, I accept that this story isn't for everyone, then you probably deserve some fluff now.
> 
> I'll dish up something tomorrow to try and keep you going.
> 
> Double points for those who can accurately guess tomorrow’s instalment. I’ve taken it in a .... different direction shall we say


	7. To jump in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5 hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 9.5k words of misery...if you’re still with me....here’s some respite.
> 
> No points today.
> 
> Shockingly no one predicted this.
> 
> But an honourable mention for Vanessa who predicted the POV would be a squirrel. You get a mention in dispatches because.....why didn't I do this from the perspective of a squirrel??

This has...not gone to plan.

The lights in the room are shit but not quite shit enough to hide the themed wallpaper.

You should have known something was up when she pulled that face. You thought you’d been clever and romantic. Then you saw the face.

Earlier, she’d given you 300€ and told you to book two seats on the Eurostar. There were only two destinations available. Paris or a cute sounding french town. You picked the cute french town.

And why wouldn’t you?

Paris is where anyone looking for you would assume you’d go to. Why would the cosmopolitan and glamorous Villanelle stay in Marne-la-Vallee when the alternative was Paris? What good spy moves you thought, all wrapped up in a quaint sounding french town. Practical and romantic. Perfect.

Or not.

She came back from the shops on the concourse at St Pancras with two new cases full of clothes that you are still yet to inspect. You presented her with the tickets. You waited for a soft sweet smile, the same one from the bridge. What you got was the face.

“What?” You’d asked.

She’d grinned. “It’s nothing.”

She’s giggling behind you again now as she brings the cases into the room.

“Please shut up”

It only makes her laugh more.

You really hate her sometimes.

“I’m going for a shower.”

She gives you a weird look before seeming to accept what you’ve said and going into the room with the bags.

Once in the bathroom you pull your clothes off and decide to use the bath instead. The shower having lost its appeal as the thought of drying your hair fills you with dread. Your hair mid blow dry is not something you need her comments on tonight.

The bath is actually just what you need. The last 24 hours have been a lot. The water has heated the air around you and you let yourself relax. You’ve almost let the irritation over this...development... slip away.

Then you open your eyes to see that the caps to the body wash and shampoo have Micky Mouse ears. Of course they do.

You sigh and rest your forehead on your knees.

This did not go as planned.

You pictured a cute guest house. You pictured a nice dinner. You pictured atmosphere, atmosphere that wasn’t wholly centred around Snow White and the Seven Fucking Dwarfs. But when you were on the train it started to dawn on you. Odd that there were lots of families. Odd that so many people were wearing matching themed outfits.

Oh no, you thought. Oh no was right.

By the time it all finally dawned on you she was asleep on your shoulder. You told yourself it would be fine. That there would be other hotels. As it turns out there were other hotels. All Disney themed. All a further walk away. This is why you are another 300€ lighter and in a pink hotel which looks like a castle. Great.

Why can’t things ever go the way you want them to? You wanted...so many things. You’ve finally silenced whatever voice in your head kept you from her for so long. So now you just want to kiss, and touch and drown in her.

This is just not the way you’d imagined it.

There’s a knock at the door.

“Eve? I’m just going to put some pyjamas out here for you. Ok?”

You bury your head in your hands. “Umm. Thanks.”

Urgh. Turns out she’s thoughtful now too. How irritating. Maybe that’s not entirely fair. She’s often thoughtful. Weird, but thoughtful, even if sometimes you need to squint to see it.

You’ve been hiding in here half an hour. Knowing that you can’t hide much longer you climb out, find a towel and reach an arm round the door to find what she’s left you. You expected silk and lace, something designed for her to look at. What she’s given you is cotton. A loose t shirt and shorts. You aren’t sure whether you are relieved or disappointed.

Padding out into the room you find her sitting on one of the two double beds. Right. You must give her a cartoonish double take because there’s the silk and lace that you expected her to have bought for you, and not a great deal of it. 

It’s pyjamas. Not underwear. So thats fine. Or maybe it’s both? Ok. Good. That’s perfectly fine. Not a big deal. You're breezy about it. So it’s fine.

She’s taken out the bun and looks as though she had been idly braiding the ends of a section of hair whilst she waited.

She looks up from her phone. A fresh burner she had told you on the train.

She smiles. A nice smile. Open and sweet.

“You look nice.” She tells you.

Finding your voice again, after all the silk and lace and skin has granted you enough bandwidth, you tell her she looks nice too. Ahem.

Walking around the bed she is sitting on you move toward the empty one, and you can’t help but peek.

Christ. Honestly though. Her legs? Just. Wow. And her tits? And the lace? Did you notice the lace? Did you-

“-ow fuck!”

“What? Are you ok?”

“No. Fuck. I stubbed my toe. Ow. Who would put this stupid bedside table next to the-“

“Bed?” Not a helpful insight.

She climbs toward you on her knees and hauls you up and onto the bed with her.

“Let me see.”

She grabs at your foot, and you try to pull it away.

“Stop. Dont touch my feet, they’re gross.”

She holds firm. She’s strong. You see a muscle work in her shoulder. Her beautiful shoulder.

Stop.

No more on that line.

Not with Snow White watching from almost every thirty centimetres around the top of the wall paper.

“Stop squirming, you big baby. You’re fine.”

She leans down and presses a kiss to your toes.

“Your feet are very nice.”

Your throat works but the words come out oddly husky. “Umm. Thanks?”

She seems satisfied with that and proceeds to drag you back to the head of the bed to sit next to her.

You’re both quiet for a minute. This is shit. You wanted to come out of a bathroom in a charming guest house and sweep her off her feet with something clever and sweet and then ....you know....all the other things.

This isn’t how you wanted it.

You wanted the bridge to have removed all the questions and second guessing. Clearly it hasn’t.

“Should I...?” You gesture to the other bed.

Her face is carefully blank.

“If that’s what you want.”

Of course it fucking isn’t.

You make an impatient sound. Isn’t she meant to be some sort of sexual savant or something? If you clearly don’t have the guts to lead on this you would have expected her to do something other than serve up all this skin in that outfit and politely wait.

She is so annoying. You’re going to have to just tell her. This wouldn’t have happened in a quaint little guest house.

“No of course not. Its just its awkward, and I’m pissed off. I had plans. Thoughts. But now you’re here and in all the lace and silk and I can’t do anything about it because the fucking themed wallpaper is making me feel weird.”

Ok. That was more than you intended to reveal but it’s out there now. No taking it back.

She looks serious for a moment then laughs.

“You had plans to .....? But now you can’t because of...the wallpaper?”

She laughs again.

You huff. “It’s not funny. It’s weird. You’re telling me you don’t find all the cartoons even a little off putting?”

She rolls her eyes and shifts down the bed pulling you down next to her before drawing you close.

“People fuck at Disneyland you know?”

“Oh god, please don’t tell me that.”

“One time I-“

“Please don’t tell me about the time you fucked someone at Disney.”

“Um. No? Not everything I do is sex.”

She pauses, clearly for dramatic effect.

“Sometimes it’s murder. The person I killed, they were here fucking someone.”

That’s actually less problematic for you. Something is seriously wrong with you; it's a thought that crosses your mind more and more these days.

Hold on.

“You killed someone whilst they were having sex?”

“No. God Eve. I am not an animal.”

She shrugs one shoulder and the strap of the silk and lace whatever it is, drops down her arm. Your eyes follow it greedily.

“I ate an apple in the hallway whilst he finished”

You can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes. Thoughtful again, sort of.

She scrambles around with the cover and pulls it over you both before tucking back in next to you.

“We could switch the light off?”

You lean up and your face must reveal some of how appalled you are at that prospect.

“No. No way. You dangled all the lace and skin deliberately. Well it worked, we’re not having sex in the dark.”

She snuggles into your shoulder to hide her grin.

“They’re just pyjamas.”

“Oh please.”

She laughs again, before reaching over and switching out the light.

She’s silent next to you, the quiet is too much.

“I’m too wired after everything, I don’t know how to sleep. Tell me something.”

“What do you want to know?” She asks.

“Anything. Just stop me from worrying about what we’re going to have to deal with tomorrow.”

She’s quiet for a bit.

“People who conceive a child here call them Disney Babies. Then there is a Facebook group where they can announce that they fucked at Disneyland and made a baby.”

“Oh my god. Is that true? Why do you know this?”

“I was googling why every room has two double beds.”

You laugh.

She’s quiet again.

“Ask me something back”

“Ask you what?”

“Anything. I always ask you stuff.”

She pauses, presumably in thought.

“Would we have been friends if we’d met as children?”

You laugh. She picks her head up from where it was laying next to you.

“What? Why are you laughing?”

“You just ask weird questions sometimes.”

She lays back down with a disgruntled huff.

“You said anything. This is a kids place. So I’m asking you about you as a kid. That’s not weird.”

You hum in response considering how to answer.

“Probably not. I was quite.....sensible as a child.”

She turns to look at you amused. “As opposed to the huge risk taker you are now”

“I take risks. I’m here aren’t I?” You respond indignantly.

You were sensible as a child. So what? It’s not a bad thing, you didn’t follow the others cycling down the hill near the lake, you never jumped from the rope swing.

“I think we would have been friends. I could have tempted you to be less sensible and you could have helped keep me out of trouble.”

“So pretty much as we are now then?”

She smiles and shrugs before lapsing back into silence.

“What were you like as a child?”

She says nothing for a long moment.

“Angry.”

You trace the pattern of the part finished braid in her hair with a fingertip.

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “It doesn’t matter any more.”

You murmur in acknowledgement.

“I have a brother who is angry too.”

You pause at that, with all that is between you there are so many parts of herself that remain closed to you. You want to dig and dig and dig until you have seen everything. You stay quiet, desperately hoping she’ll give you more.

“I have another brother who is annoying, but also cute.”

“Family trait is it?”

You aimed for light hearted but she is suddenly very still.

“There are worst traits I’ve inherited.”

More silence. Your finger still in her hair.

“It came from my mother I think, some of it anyway. The darkness I mean. Some of it must be mine, but some was hers.”

You’re close enough now that you can see that her eyes are glassy before she blinks and it’s gone before she turns onto her back to stare at the ceiling.

“Like I said. It doesn’t matter anymore.”

The old urge to press and dig and know screams inside you, but there’s something new that’s tapering it.

Time.

You have time now. You don’t need to claw out details in the precious few rushed moments alone that you've shared. Potentially you have forever to earn all of her secrets. It’s a good feeling.

You murmur an acknowledgement. “Tell me about it sometime?”

She shrugs again. "Ok."

“I’d like to have seen you as a child.” You smile at the thought of her as a wild little thing.

“Urgh. Obviously.”

“Why’d you say it like that?”

“You want everything. You want everything now, you want everything from how I was before. Why wouldn’t you want everything from when I was a child too?”

You reach out to turn her face back to yours.

“Is it too much?”

“Sometimes.” She answers seriously but shakes it off with an easy smile.

Is she right that you’d have been friends as children? You think you’d have shied away from her raw energy, even less controlled than it is now.

You’d have shied away but been fascinated at the same time. What else is new?

You have always been someone to hesitate before jumping and she has always prompted you to succumb to whatever it was that made you want to abandon the sensible path you always trod.

So if she’d jumped into the lake would you have followed?

Probably.

“I’d have liked you as a child.” She says it with no small amount of certainty.

“You’d have found me boring.”

She looks at you as though insulted.

“Never.”

“Oh please. My friends did exciting things whilst I held the bags. That was me. The bag holder. You wouldn’t have looked twice.”

A hand on your cheek turns your face to hers again. “I told you earlier. That’s not you. You can hold the bags and dress in shapeless clothes all you like but I can still see you.”

The insistent knot in your chest tightens. How can you have gone so long without ever really feeling seen like this.

You have to kiss her. Properly this time. Why haven’t you done it yet? You ask yourself for probably the thousandth time in your life.

The same reason as always. You just needed a push.

Turning to look at her again you find she’s facing you already. You lean over to kiss her and it takes her by surprise which only makes it better.

You kiss her for a long moment before she pulls back and presses her hand to her mouth.

She schools her features to appear scandalised.

“With tongue Eve? And with Snow White watching? How naughty.”

She swipes a reprimanding finger against the tip of your nose.

It draws a giggle from you. Jesus Christ. So apparently you now giggle. You are now a person who giggles. 

You pull her closer again. You press another long slow kiss to her mouth, and if you let your hands wander then so be it because fuck Snow White.

Your hand moves to cup a breast, and holy shit there’s a nipple beneath all the silk and lace and it’s pressing hard into your palm. You did that. Your mouth trails down her neck because you need to put your mouth where your fingers are.

Something is off though. Her hands have stilled. That’s weird.

You tip your head up, she’s not watching you, she’s staring at the lampshade next to the bed.

“Is this ok?” You hate how nervous you sound.

“Yes! Yes! It’s good! More, obviously. Keep going.” She runs a hand down your body, squeezes your ass and smiles in what you think is supposed to be reassurance.

You move your thumb again, she presses into your hand but her attention is elsewhere again.

“Seriously, whats wrong?”

“Nothing!”

“Don’t be a dick, just tell me?”

She pauses and seems to struggle with whether or not to speak.

“They’re watching. It’s weird.”

She gestures at the lamp shade. The fucking Dwaves again.

“Oh my god. Seriously though! I told you, it is weird!”

She laughs lightly but doesn’t say anything for a while until she somehow manages to rearrange you both so you’re curled around her.

“So...no Disney baby tonight then I guess”

You smile and tighten your arm around her.

“Maybe not. We’ve got time though, and when has that been true before?”

“A future?” She asks tentatively.

You murmur in agreement and kiss her shoulder.

She snuggles back into you.

Fuck. You giggle and she’s a snuggler. You’re pretty certain you hate the sort of couple you’re going to be.

“This is nice.” She says it quietly, still a little unsure.

“Now cuddle me and tell me more about sensible little Eve who held the bags. Its my turn to know everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And to think not one of you said ‘Do they go to Disneyland Paris and not have sex because all the cartoons made it feel weird?’
> 
> And for today’s inappropriate revelation about my life? 
> 
> We went last year for my daughters second birthday, and we also did not. Firstly, Disneyland Paris is a lot of walking around all day, so I was absolutely shattered at the end of the day. Plus, there was the logistical issue of her being in the room (no thanks, call me a prude if you must, but I like to spare her childhood trauma where possible) but also......the thought of it does just make me feel a bit weird...... totally cool if it’s your thing obviously. Different strokes etc. But for me? Nah.
> 
> Now I’ve weirded you all out with that tid bit, it’s another rough few days until Invisible String, and if you thought this was too fluffy......you will be appalled by the fluff in that chapter.....appalled.


	8. Never mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9 years + 3 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annoyingly it’s points to NeverGiveUpOnMe who was sickeningly correct on even minor details. 
> 
> Honourable mentions to misunderwhat who was close ish.
> 
> If you feel that I’ve overlooked a correct suggestion there is a Hawkeye/VAR (depending on your poison) mechanism for revision.

Of all things it’s that she cancelled her Netflix account which sets you off tonight. 

You aren’t a total prick, since you broke up you haven’t been using it without her permission. Not a lot anyway. It’s just that your profile on her account knows where you are with your rewatch of Buffy. It knows that when Louis Theroux even breathes in the vicinity  of a documentary you need to know so it’s immediately brought to your attention. 

So it was just easier to use hers. 

Until today when you are unceremoniously told that the account has been deleted. It feels a little like losing your last fingerhold on her.

This is so fucking stupid. No one cries over a Netflix subscription. It’s just that without her physical presence in your life itbecomes painfully clear how little you had of her at all. Netflix and some clothes left in your apartment. Five years and that’s the sum total of what you are left with.

Fuck that’s pathetic. Fine. Ok. Decision made. You deserve take out tonight. You’ll make your own Netflix account, you’re somewhere in season three with Buffy and the algorithm will learn your need for all things Louis soon enough. 

You’re going to be ok.

Who deletes a Netflix account anyway? That’s just weird. Surely you’d simply change the password? 

Other stuff is weird too. You know she moved. Her apartment went up for sale a few weeks ago and her cell wouldn’t connect during a deeply unfortunate moment of weakness at 2am last week. 

It’s like she just stopped existing. 

It’s embarrassing to think of now but that’s how it always was. You seeking her out. You pushing for more. 

At the start she was quite clear what she wanted; she wanted to fuck you and for you to leave straight after. That was fine. She wore a ring so you assumed she was married or something and if she was a cheating asshole, so what? It wasn’t a big deal. It wasn’t anything serious. You were chill about it all. She was hot and you were busy at school. 

It started to creep as she started to talk. Nothing significant. But more than “Can I call you Eve?”. 

Then one night she ordered take out, enough for both of you and you ate it together in front of the tv. You didn’t have sex that night, she kissed you at the door, used your real name and asked if she could take you out for a drink some time.

Probably it was only then that you realised you wanted more from her than a reliable fuck at the end of a text. But once you realised what you wanted from her you couldn’t turn it off.

Every tiny drop of detail about her was water for a parched throat. Your most treasured discovery was that you could make her laugh, and to start with she seemed as surprised by that as you were. With that revelation she started to show a silly playful side, so at odds with the vampy seductress she portrayed at the beginning.

So it was good. You thought it was anyway, you were a cute couple who jogged together at the weekends. Movies, dinners out, drinks in fancy bars you’d never have visited alone, and great sex. What’s not to like?

God, you even liked how she never tried to take more than you were willing to give. She didn’t seem to mind when you had to spend hours marking in the evening. You liked that she didn’t pester for your attention as girlfriends had in the past. Looking back now it was probably that she didn’t even think to mind that you weren’t actively doing something together. What seemed thoughtful at the time feels like disinterest now.

One evening you plucked up the courage to ask about the ring. She told you that she was widowed before you met. She was guarded at first but you coaxed some details. A woman called Eve. Older than her. Great hair apparently. She was clearly still heartbroken.

Well the clue was in the name really. Heartbroken is not a concept interchangeable with someone who has moved on. What an idiot you were to think that was some sort of tipping point. To think she was finally letting you in. Well it was a mistake you repeated often enough for the following five years.

The buzzer to the front of the apartment goes to break your chain of thought and you let the delivery driver up. 

You wanted to order something she hated, a nice little fuck you via the medium of take out food. The asshole ate everything and anything. She couldn’t even give you this. 

You unwrap your food grudgingly. 

The worst part is that you started to care about the heartbreak. It was the one time you could reliably get her to open up. God, how often you tried to coax her to talk about Eve is mortifying now. You were sad that she lost the love of her life and tried to help her with her grief all the while falling in love with her yourself. 

What a fucking idiot.

Drip by agonising drip five years past. At the time you were happy. You had an amazing girlfriend. At last. She sent you flowers at work. She bought you clothes. She was fun and weird and rude and pretty. 

Ok, so she was a little closed off and she never really spoke about the future but that didn’t matter to you at the time. When you told her that you loved her she told you that she didn’t do that. You thought it was another hangover from being widowed so young. You took it as a challenge. She cared about you deep down, it was just about making her feel safe enough to say it. 

You were so fucking naive.

It was your friends who pointed it out to you. How weird it all was. Five years and you still live apart. Five years and she’s barely met your friends. Five years and she still wears that fucking ugly ring. So unembellished, pressed into the skin of the most flamboyantly dressed woman you’ve ever known. Eve can’t have understood her like you do. You’d never have chosen a ring so plain.

It was then that you started to notice that Eve wasn’t fading. She wasn’t working through her grief. Her grief was all she had left. A thought nagged at you. She never intended to let it go.

Everything took on a different hue then. You asked if she wanted to meet your parents, she looked at you blankly and asked why. She hated any attempt by you to mark her skin, fingers scraping her back or your mouth tight to her neck. She never let you get even close to it. But there was a scar on her stomach left by Eve. “Miscalculated flirting”, was the only explanation given. Weird again.

The bottom really dropped out when you found the drawings. Not drawings. Plans. Architectural designs. A house. A beautiful house. Even the furniture was planned down to the smallest detail. 

You allowed a disgustingly hopeful thought that this was a surprise for you. This was going to be a future for you. This was the proof that you hadn’t fallen in love with someone forever looking at someone else.

She found you looking at the drawings and you thought she’d be angry. She wasn’t. She was pleased to show you. She always liked an audience. You asked about the details and she was excited to tell you. 

You thought you’d found another crack in the armour. You thought that this was proof. Your friends were just jealous. You knew it was real and a house designed for your future together was your proof.

“I love this window here”, you traced the lines on the paper with care, imagining all her beautiful skin against white bedsheets and sunshine.

She smiled, so open and charming. 

“Me too, we’d spend hours laying out on a blanket watching the sun try to batter through the trees. The light coming through here means that you can do that from the bed, much more convenient.”

The asshole even shared a conspiratorial smile, as if you were sharing a joke.

She might as well have kicked you in the chest. This wasn’t a house for you two to have a future. It was a fucking mausoleum. 

For five years you’d only been allowed parts of her that weren’t reserved for Eve. Honestly looking back now, that wasn’t much. You knew superficial things of course, she was born in Russia, she lived all over the world, rich by way of family money, you knew movies she’d like you knew what to order her in a restaurant. But was there anything else beneath that facade? You have no idea.

One day you told her that you should take some time apart. She blinked in mild surprise, shrugged and said, “ok”.

That was it. That was literally it. And now she’s gone and you’re sitting here eating Thai food from a plastic box. It’s good Thai food to be fair, but still.

Well fuck her. Ok, so she’s gone but what exactly have you lost? Company. The feeling that you aren’t alone. 

That was the sum total of what you had with her. It was all a trick of the light anyway. She might have stopped calling you Eve but you wondered if there was even one moment that meant something to you that she wasn’t sharing with someone else instead.

You wipe your eyes and grab your laptop. 

Enough now, you tell yourself, enough.

Get started.

Register for a new account.

New user name.

New password.

No, you think. You really haven’t lost anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t use an ex’s subscription service after you break up. It is a bit unreasonable.
> 
> When I was 16 or 17, I had a boyfriend with a Napster account (god I feel old) and I continued to use it after we broke up. He wasn’t talking to me, presumably because I’m the worst - definitely not a story for 630am on a Sunday, so he got his mum to call my mum to get me to stop. 
> 
> That really was the worst.


	9. Don’t quite know what to say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years + seven months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No scorers today guys.
> 
> A predictable mention in dispatches for NeverGiveUpOnMe who got POV and theme correct. Come on guys, without a major turn around they have this in the bag already! To think I was concerned that we may have needed a lightning round!
> 
> As always Hawkeye/VAR is here should a review be required.

Why did you decide to do this again? You pull a hand through your hair and stare at a blank page.

You don’t do letters. Committing emotions and sentiment to paper? Words that she can read and re read? No.

Except that is exactly what you are doing, or not doing as the case may be.

You sat down at your desk half an hour ago. 

Dear…..Villanelle? Dear Oksana? Villsana? Or is that too flippant?

And that is as far as you’ve got. Would Villanelle piss her off? Would it be feeding into her narrative that you still see her the way you did at the start and you don’t want anything else? But is it manipulative to use Oksana, the name that carries with it all the intimacy from the last few years?

Half an hour and you cant get past the second word. This is fucking ridiculous.

She used to write you pages of beautiful prose. Seemingly with no effort at all and you are stuck on word two.

Why are you doing this again?

Because you fucked up. Because you left. Because you were wrong. Because you need a gesture that is unlikely to lead to anyone getting stabbed or shot. Because you want her to feel that you are trying for her.

All of these reasons.

Dear….you?

No.

My Darling?

No.

Hi?

No.

You settle on just telling her that you don’t know who to address it to. Oksana or Villanelle? It doesn’t matter to you, they are shades of the same colour. You love both. She was the one to prescribe them different meanings.

One paragraph done. Good. It might be a stretch to say that you are on a roll but you are out of the gates at least. 

Fifteen minutes pass.

…

Twenty mintures.

….

Twenty-five minutes.

Oh Jesus. This is a disaster.

What are you meant to tell her? That where she saw fate pulling you together, you saw an inevitable ending pulling you apart? That the more intertwined you became, the closer that ending felt? Or maybe that the thought of losing her was too much so you started to push her away? Pathetic.

Thats what happened though isn’t it? The more gentle and reverent she was, the more she showed you how much she loved you, the harder it was for you to accept. 

You told Niko that you were the only thing that he had in his life. You made it sound like in an insult. Maybe you just couldn’t bear the burden of being so important to someone and knowing deep down that you aren’t worth it.

How do you even tell someone that without sounding like you are making excuses.

You suppose you just need to try.

You received maybe ten letters from her in the time that you were together but you only saw her actually writing one once. 

It was the morning after she told you about fate, she described it as the two of you being meant to be. She could be so sentimental sometimes, thinking of it now makes your eyes burn. You woke to find her sitting against the headboard writing in a pad of paper and lots of crumbled up pages around the bed.

You’d blinked yourself into existence gradually, exhausted by her last night hours before she was content to stop. She didn’t acknowledge your presence as she scribbled into the pad, concentration pinching her beautiful features.

She barely spared you a glance when you asked what she was doing. A love letter apparently. You eyed all the torn out pages and asked if it wasn’t going well. She told you it was all part of the process and kissed your cheek, before returning to her pad to keep scribbling.

You saw the box at Anna’s house. 

Letters mean something to her. Thats why you are doing this.

So you swallow up your embarrassment and awkwardness and start writing.

You know that you were an asshole to her for weeks before you left.

You started to shy away from her love. You couldn’t cope with how it made you feel when she showed you how much you meant to her.

You deliberately said things to hurt her in the hope that she would take to decision out of your hands. Hoping you could prompt her into something so terrible that leaving was the only reasonable thing to do.

When that didn’t materialise you had planned to leave for weeks but it was always too hard. 

You imagined that when you stepped into the night air you would feel free but you felt nothing but empty.

You can live here alone in London but you don’t want to.

You don’t want a life without her in it and you’ll do anything to earn her trust back.

Whether or not she lets you come home you’ll keep your promise and you will love her forever.

You want her to be right about everything she told you that night under an empty sky wrapped up in a blanket together, that what you have felt across your life is fate trying to pull you together. But if it’s not that, if she’s wrong about what she was so adamant about and its meant to push you apart then you’ll fight to keep her at any cost.

And that’s it.

You sign it and fold the paper. 

You don’t read it back. Let her be a dick about your spelling, you just want to hear her voice again.

You run your hands over the sheet and imagine her doing the same when she receives it. 

It’s not perfect. But not much between you has been. You’ve tried though, and more than anything else you want her to know that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact about this chapter; to write it I wrote Eve’s letter first. Which actually turned out to be really long.
> 
> I then wrote this chapter about how fucking hard it is to actually write your own feelings out knowing another actual person will not only explicitly know how you feel but also will know how you’ve chosen to present your feelings. 
> 
> It was really weird. It all left me feeling awkward and embarrassed, which is ridiculous as they aren’t even really my feelings. Or are they? I wrote them after all? Are these my intimacy issues? Too much navel gazing? Probably.
> 
> Anyway, it all felt too telling.
> 
> So if things go tragically pear-shaped with my really quite charming family, and you, dear reader, and I begin a torrid romance....there will be no love letters. Not one. Apologies.


	10. A million little times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Year 4 + 8 months

It can’t be every night. That would prompt questions. Worse still, it prompts concern, and that you really cant deal with.

So it can’t be every night, but it can be a few nights a week. You make a big fuss over how swamped you are at work. Tell her about one of the more traumatic stories from your cases that week. Then you hide in your office looking at case files until you know that they are both asleep.

The once you are satisfied that you are alone you can let out a breath. 

Then you pull out the files. Carolyn’s files. Her files. You don’t really need to though, you know them by heart. Its been your pattern for the last month. Ever since Carolyn so kindly dropped these in your lap. All this death, but all this love too. 

Thats what you feel when you look at these pictures. Love.

It’s what you’ve been trying to avoid for the best part of two years and things have been going ok. You have a job. You found a girlfriend. You found a therapist, and it was all ok and it was stopping you from looking for this again.

But now its here and no amount of telling yourself this is the last time stops you from hiding yourself away up here and drowning yourself in her all over again.

You take out the letters, trace the delicate swirls of her handwriting with your fingers. You wrap yourself in the blanket and believe that it still smells of her. You allow your fingers to ghost over the fine silk of her dressing gown, and picture the skin beneath. 

It's not being unfaithful, not really. It's just….remembering.

Once you are done with that you turn to the blood and death, the other language that you spoke to each other. 

You know that these are for you. The ring fingers are always cut away. Cut away and dumped unceremoniously near to the body. 

A love letter, you cant help but think.

You don’t want this. Not really. You want to be back in the other room, in bed with someone who is nice and fun and kind. Actually thats not right, you want to want those things but you cant stop yourself from coming back to this, back to her.

Fourteen bodies. Fourteen fingers. But only one letter, left with the most recent one, some marketing executive in Baltimore. It wasn’t even a letter really, just a note, the old words.

_ Sorry baby _

Carolyn thought it was a sign that maybe Villanelle wanted to come in from the cold. That she wanted to reconsider working for MI6. You knew better. This was for you, not Carolyn. Still, she made you an offer, go out and find her, do it on their dime. They believed she was somewhere in New York but she’s been careful hiding where exactly. You wanted to take it, but you asked Carolyn to leave instead. 

You saw something that you knew was unhealthy, you acknowledged that you wanted it but said no regardless. This is personal growth. Or something.

Your phone vibrates to break your trail of thought.

  * Its 1am, come to bed.



Fuck.

How could you possibly explain this to her? How could you explain that the person who occupies almost all of your consciousness is slowly killing herself in a bid to either punish you or get your attention? Possibly both?

The truth is that you haven’t told Sarah much at all.How could you? How do you explain all those years before and after the bridge? All the things that you did, that you are capable of doing for, or because of, a woman who made you feel something you don’t think you’ll ever feel again. Wide awake.

How can you expect another person to ever understand that? No, you don’t think people  like to hear that sort of thing from their partners. So you keep silent.

You type a response.

  * Just finishing something off. Back soon. x



You send it, its read but there is no response. You’re glad.

She always did this to you. Or prompted this out from wherever it already existed inside you. It's always the same. You lie to the people who care about you, brushing their concern off as an inconvenience. 

It is an inconvenience when your only focus is her.

Oksana knew it too.

She knew that when you looked at her you couldn’t see anything else. You told her that was true but she already knew.

Is that was this is then? The old tricks? Are they working? Don't they always?

Fuck her for drawing you back into this. You were doing ok, for the most part.

You know what you want to do. You want to go. You want to call Carolyn and tell her to book you a flight. You want to chase her and catch her and have her again.

You hate yourself for it. You hate yourself for insinuating yourself in this family and knowing that now you’d give anything for an excuse to leave. 

Do you love them? Probably. 

You told that girl who bought your house that love wasn’t always enough. You had meant Oksana but that feels wrong now. You thought you’d meant that her love wasn’t enough to stop you being so afraid, or that yours wasn’t enough to give her faith that you’d come back. But what it really means is this; you do love this family. You love Sarah and Sam. They love you and you are happy here. 

But it is not enough. 

You look at the pile of all the photos, all the crime scene reports and finally her note. You run your fingers over it and wish that it was her skin that you were touching.

You pull a case from the top of the wardrobe, you pack the files. Then you pack the letters and the blanket and the clothes, all the traces of her that you have left.

So you’re doing this then. It’s something you want so you’re taking it. There has to be some psychobabble excuse to support this decision. Surely. 

You text Carolyn and you aren’t surprised when you get a near instant response.

You look at your office. Sarah cleared it out for you when you moved in, an effort to make this feel like your home too. 

You won’t leave in the middle of the night. You aren’t that much of a dick. You’ll tell her tomorrow. You’ll explain that this doesn’t have to be goodbye. 

After all, this is just so that you can stop Oksana from doing this? To stop her from continuing to hurt herself? Right? Whatever.

You’ll tell Carolyn that you’re going there to recruit her and you’ll tell Sarah you’re going to save her. The truth is almost certainly neither of those.

Does it matter though? Just like every lie you’ve told in your pursuit of her, it gets easier and easier.

You tuck the part packed suitcase under the desk and switch off the light.

Your feet tread the familiar boards. You pause briefly at Sam’s room but ignore the instinct to check on him.

You open your bedroom door, and tuck back into bed beside her as an arm sneaks around you. You allow yourself to be pulled close. 

You’ll leave tomorrow and just like every other time that you have sacrificed someone else in your pursuit of her you doubt you’ll feel much of anything at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, ok.
> 
> You’ve been patient and it’s been a slog. I get it. You will be rewarded tomorrow. 
> 
> Advice for tomorrow is to pack all things dental hygiene; teeth will rot.


	11. Pretty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like a said. It’s been a slog. 
> 
> Things should be a bit easier from here on out.
> 
> It’s not the proposal. Hopefully it will do.

“Eve?”

Nothing.

“Eve? Are you awake?”

A groan. That’s promising. You knew she was awake.

“Eve?”

“mmm?” 

“Are you awake?”

“No? What time is it?”

“The afternoon?”

“Great. Why are you awake?”

You shrug. You want to look at it again but the dappled light breaking through the thick canopy of pines beyond the window isn’t enough.

“I want to look at it.”

She sighs indulgently and snuggles closer. “You’ve looked plenty and it’ll still be there later. That’s sort of the point.”

You murmur unconvinced, holding out your fingers into the gold of the autumn sunlight slipping through the window. The light bounces from the band at your finger onto her face.

Pretty.

“Do you think that we were meant to be?”

She snorts. Well that’s rude.

“I think we did our best to fuck this up over and over again.”

“And yet here we are.”

“Oh god. A promise of forever and some amazing sex and she believes in fate all of a sudden.”

You pinch at her ribs lightly.

“So, do you?”

She sighs.

“Do I believe in fate?”

“Yeah.” You turn on your side and grin when her eyes drop along with the covers. It’s been almost a year of this but the pinch in your chest when you see how she wants you hasn ’t lessened at all.

When she doesn’t respond after a while you flop onto your back and bring your fingers back into the stream of light through the window to enjoy the glint in the early afternoon sunlight again.

“So?”

“I’m thinking.”

“I do.”

“You would.” She replies airily.

Hmm. Would you though? Before you don’t think you would have. You had to be in control of your life. If someone had told the wild thing that you were, that there was nothing that she could do, that she would always end up at the same point she’d have spit and hissed and clawed to escape yet another set of chains.

Now though? Now you like it. Now it’s a nice thought. 

All the people you’ve been over the course of your life, from the little girl furiously blinking away tears at the closed door of an orphanage, right through to the womanin Rome standing over the body of the woman she loves. They were all heading for this exact moment. This bed. This ring. This Autumn. 

Pretty. Such a pretty thought.

“I think a lot of people were hurt for us to end up here. So if we are meant to be together then we’ve taken the most fucked up route available.”

You laugh lightly at that. “That doesn’t really answer my question.”

She hums a little but says nothing more for a moment. 

“Stroke my hair whilst I lay on your chest?”

She laughs at your directness, but she moves her arm for you to slide closer.

Her fingers thread through your hair and you listen to the thump of her heart in her chest.

“If I was the interior designer for your house with Niko, would we have run away together and still be in this bed now?”

“I don’t know what makes you think we had an interior designer.”

You smile against her skin.

“You’re no fun, play this game with me.”

She sighs, oh so put upon.

“I couldn’t look at anything else once I’d seen you. You know that.”

Something stutters in your chest. You do know it. You know the power you hold over her, the same that she holds over you. You know it, but something stutters all the same.

You kiss at her skin resting beneath your head, and then bring your hand up toward your face to look at it again. 

“Why did you give me this?”

Her hand slows in your hair before dropping to your jaw and turning your face up toward her.

“Why do you think?”

You can’t make your throat work. You can’t make the words form because a not insignificant part of you has no idea why she would have done this. You drop your gaze.

“Hey, look at me.”

You do it. You’d do anything she asks.

“I love you, so we’ll grow old or we’ll consume each other. Either way it’s forever.”

You lips quirk at that. 

“So you’re promising me death then?”

She smiles.

“That’s all any one has to offer really isn’t it?”

You lay your head back on her chest and she goes back to playing with your hair.

“Would you have given me this romantic death proposal if I was an interior designer?”

She laughs. 

“Probably. Would you still have said yes?”

“Probably.”

“Meant to be then, aren’t we.” She says it with an easy smile.

You grin as you snuggle your face into her skin before kissing a trail up to her mouth.

She meets you hungrily despite having spent the better part of the day doing just this. 

Her lips trail to your ear and she nips at your earlobe before whispering, “Fuck me, again, please.”

Ever the loyal servant you slowly let your hand run down her body. “You’ll have to call it making love once we’re married, I’ll be too respectable for fucking.”

She snorts a laugh and then her teeth are on your collar bone. 

“No amount of bureaucracy and paperwork could make you respectable.”

“Bureaucracy and paperwork? Such a romantic” You tease back.

Hmmmm. 

You pause what you’re doing and pull away so you can look at her.

“We can have forever without this though. The rings and....everything, I mean. 

She nods. “Yeah, I know.”

You tilt your head questioningly, “Do you actually want a wedding?”

She looks at you with a weird expression. 

“Umm. Honestly I hadn’t really thought about it.”

You laugh, “Who proposes when they aren’t even sure they want to get married?” You say it with genuine amusement.

She runs a hand through her hair and you shift off her to give her some space.

“It’s not...it’s not that I don’t want to be with you forever, tied together or whatever I just don’t know about the whole...wedding thing. What about you? Do you want a wedding?”

You laugh. “Who would I invite?” 

She looks sad, hmmm, that wasn’t the intention. “Hey, I’m kidding. Sort of. I just want to be with you, belonging to each other sounds nice. I could do that. The rest is....whatever.”

She looks at you for a moment. 

“Shall we just...be married?”

“Right now?” You ask.

“Sure”

This is weird right? 

“So we would just decide, and then we’re married?”

“If you like.”

You like the immediacy of it. She could be yours right now, no messing around with paperwork and worrying over invitations and guest lists. No cake though, that is a compromise.

“If I say yes, will you go out later and buy a cake?”

“You’ll let me leave this bed?”

Good point. Although....cake....

“I will allow you time off from your wifely duties to go and get cake”

She laughs. “Gross, don’t call it that.”

“Making love then.”

“Not that either.”

“Since we’ve been married you haven’t stopped complaining.”

“Oh my god. Stop being annoying. Yes I’ll get cake, and no don’t call it making love. It makes me think of school sex ed lessons.”

“Mmm, sexy.”

She laughs. Your chest full and light at the same time. You’re happy. Content. It’s weird.

You’re both laying on your sides and she takes the hand with the ring and presses a kiss to it. You feel her promise of forever and you think you might cry.

You think of another bed. You think of Paris and without any shadow of a doubt you know. 

This is what you’ve been heading toward. 

Every fucked up awful thing you’ve lived through.Whatever either of you have done to each other to fuck it up along the way, knives, bullets, words, whatever, it’s all been leading here. 

You press an answering kiss to her fingers.

Forever.

You were always heading here. 

Such a pretty thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you appalled with the fluff? You must be.
> 
> Anyway, for today’s insight into my life; this is the sort of married that I am. So I guess this is kind of based on a true story? Well....it’s loosely based on a true story anyway, except there were lengthy discussions, a pros and cons table in excel and eventually the wedding pot was blown on an expensive new kitchen. 
> 
> It was pretty romantic. Dust sheets and microwave meals for weeks. Swoon. As you can imagine, with the level of romance I’m offering, I am quite the catch.  
> Assuming you prioritise expensive and disruptive home improvements over social convention, of course. 
> 
> But we now have an instant boiling water tap and really what says I’ll try to love you forever if not that?
> 
> Oh shit. Hang on. I’m sickened to even think this but....does this mean that this whole chapter is a love letter of my own? Fuck. Must delete it now. Let’s never speak of that thought ever again.


	12. Poke that bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 year + 7 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are now three versions of this chapter. Two existed before a long bath last night. I hated them. Like actual visceral hated and I don’t hate a lot of stuff. Actually that’s a lie, I hate plenty of stuff, but I particularly hated both versions.
> 
> So I had a crisis of confidence and a long bath before remembering that I like writing Villanelle. Way more than I like writing Eve, actually. So I decided to stop being a dick and just get on with it so....here you are.

“You have a shitty boyfriend then?” You ask her in an Australian accent.

You saw her a few weeks ago, one of the surfing crowd. Tall, short hair, nice legs, arguing with a man. She caught your eye then, so seeing her again tonight made the decision for you. 

You’ve come a little further than you normally do, you don’t normally visit the bars near this bit of the beach. It’s quite a walk from your house, an hour or two maybe, you don’t watch the clock. The distance is probably a good thing you suppose. You’ve been eating a lot of bread whilst everything has been going to shit.

There’s been a lot of bread and a lot of long walks. There is little chance of anyone accidentally getting stabbed when you are full of bread or miles from home. 

So you walk.

The girl tips her glass back and it reveals a not unattractive throat. 

“Who doesn’t?”

Your face forms a smile.

“I have a shitty wife.”

She laughs. “Do you want a drink?”

“Sure.” You were going to buy her one, this is going better than you planned.

“Why is your wife shitty?”

You slip onto the bar stool next to her. 

“Do you really want to talk about her? There’s plenty of other more interesting things we could do.”

She looks you over, her eyes linger in all the usual places. It feels nice actually, uncomplicated desire, it’s been a while.

“Sorry honey, you’re hot but I’m not going to fuck you. Have your drink, tell me about your shitty wife so I don’t need to think about my shitty boyfriend.”

Huh. Well. You like her about fifty times more now.

“She’s an asshole.”

The girl nods and motions for someone behind the bar for two more.

“Ok. She’s an asshole. What’s so assholey about her?”

“She isn’t happy and doesn’t want to be the bad guy when she leaves me so she’s trying to make me do something to give her an excuse.”

She girl looks at you more closely.

“Fuck.” Then she sort of laughs. “I thought you were going to say she cheats or something.”

That makes you laugh. “No. She’s much worse.”

“So is that why you’re here? You want to screw someone go home tell her all about it so she can leave guilt free?”

“No. I’m much worse too.”

She laughs again. Properly this time.

“That’s a shame, you’re more interesting than I thought. I was just about to reconsider turning you down.”

“The night is young.” 

She half smiles, sort of shrugs and pushes a glass toward you. You don’t normally indulge but it’s been a shitty few weeks. It tastes terrible as it slips down your throat, perfect.

“Why isn’t she happy?”

“She doesn’t want to be.”

“She sounds super fun.”

You nod. “She can be. Other times she gets impatient waiting to be proved right that things always go wrong or end or something, so she makes things shit herself.”

The girl blows out a sigh. “My boyfriend drinks too much and screws other girls. I guess I have it pretty good.”

“Why do you stay?” Surprisingly you find that you are interested in the answer.

She exhales loudly and doesn’t look at you when she answers, “Love and habit, I guess.”

You take another sip. “Yeah.”

“Why does she stay? If she’s not happy I mean?” She asks you.

“She loves me. She just doesn’t know how to be ....still.”

“Younger?” She asks.

“Older.” 

She murmurs an acknowledgement and takes another sip.

“Why do you stay?” She asks.

It’s something you’ve asked yourself enough times. Every barb, every prod to get you to lose control, they all prompt that question.

“Love and hope.”

“Jeez. That’s way worse than me.”

You laugh again. This has been nice. When is the last time you spoke to someone without having to worry about all the potential land mines beneath the words? Months. Fuck.

“Do you think she will leave?”

“Yes.” Your answer comes too readily.

“Sorry.”

“Yeah. Me too. Will you leave your boyfriend?”

“No.” Her answer also comes too quickly.

You both drink in silence for a little while.

“Fuck. This is depressing, and you came here to get laid? Sorry for ruining that I guess.”

You smile again. “Actually this has been nice.”

She seems to consider that for a moment, before she gives you a surprised smile.

“Yeah.”

“Do you want another drink?” You ask her.

“Yeah. Ok.”

You buy her another drink. Then one more. You play pool. You watch her bend over the table to pull off a ridiculous trick shot. You watch the muscles in the back of her thighs. Maybe you will fuck her.

She tells you that she draws. She tells you that she gets lonely travelling so much, that one day she wants a home. You tell her that homes aren’t always what you hope them to be.

The bar closes and her hand slips into yours as you leave. There is a cut in the sand dunes, where wooden slats lead down to the shore.

She takes off her flip flops, you notice her baby pink nails. You feel a rush of something for this woman. 

The sky is clear and the waves are still noisy, the Atlantic never stills, never quiets. 

She’s still holding your hand as you walk down the beach away from the bars. She stops and tugs on your hand. She’s beautiful, you smile at her as you let a hand slip around the back of her neck. As she leans forward to kiss you, you slip a hand under her jaw and your wrists twist quickly in the familiar way. The snap hasn’t changed. It’s been awhile but you still remember.

You look down at her body, crumpled on the sand. That feeling from earlier? It was gratitude.

It’s nice to have someone to talk to. It’s a good way to get your thoughts in order. But it’s not what you came for this evening.  
  


You came here to find something for Eve. A way to set her free. The excuse she is clearly so desperate for. Whatever she needs to hate you again, another woman’s body dead or alive, fucked or murdered, it doesn’t matter. She wants an excuse and you thought you would give her anything she asked for.    
  


It turns out your love does have limits because  the body at your feet wasn’t for her. This was for you. It was a release. It was proving to yourself that you could still do something for you and you alone. This awful thing you did, that she so desperately wants to hate you for will only be for you.

You drag the body into the dunes. It’s harder work than you remember. All that bread again, clearly.

You look down at the body at your feet again. You won’t give her an excuse, and when she goes it will be because of her fucked up heart or mind or whatever it is that won’t let her just be still with you. You won’t take the guilt and burden and responsibility from her. If she wants to take this love from you, she’ll have to do it herself.   
  


When you came here tonight you liked the idea of sparing Eve some pain, because it will tear her apart to leave you. But now you think of the pain it will cause her when she leaves and it’s a good feeling. If she wants to take this thing, so precious, from you, it won’t be without a price.  


You meant what you said to this girl tonight; whatever Eve thinks you are now, you are still much worse and that is the most comforting thought you’ve had in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And if you didn’t like this, just imagine the state of the other two versions!!!! 
> 
> Jesus. Honestly, so bad that the entire project was almost abandoned. Well. Not quite. But they were shit. Like really really shit. Really.
> 
> I also think I might have broken a toe, so I also credit that for the confidence crisis because...oww.


	13. Flesh wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9 years + 6 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to make you aware it’s set in a hospital. Nothing graphic but if it’s a thing please skip.

“You look old.”

“I look distinguished. You on the other hand still have spots.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“You too.”

There is carpet on the walls of the lift. Why would any one have done this?

“He’s not going to die you know? I don’t even know why you came.”

“He wants to see his favourite daughter before he goes. People get sentimental like that at the end.”

Her face betrays her for the briefest of moments and that’s when you feel the first tickle of fear.

He called you a week ago, told you he was dying. You asked him if this was more amateur dramatics. He said not. You told him that you had just broken up with a girlfriend so had a clearish schedule. He barked out a laugh and said he’d see you soon.

Irina is taller. Her hair is still a deep shock of red, she’s still an asshole. It’s good to see her.

She walks out of the lift ahead of you. Good shoes, you notice. She doesn’t acknowledge you again until she pauses at a door just off one of the wards. You watch her steel herself before the door opens and anxiety tickles in your stomach.

The room smells of death, stale and too warm. He’s asleep and looks like shit. You see why she paused.

She’s already looking at you when you turn to her. She’s not so different than you remember really.

She runs an impatient hand through her hair. “Look, I’ve got...stuff to sort out. He’ll be out for hours probably. Can I leave you here?”

You nod.

“You won’t....?”

“I left my razor wire in the car. Scouts honour.”

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t say anything back. She moves as if to go toward him, then seems to remember that you are in the room and leaves without a second glance.

The door clicks closed and you look at him. He’s going to die. He was right about that. You read through his chart, what you can decipher of the hand writing seems bleak.

You take off your coat and dump your bag on the side. There’s a chair next to the bed and you let yourself flop down into it. You watch his chest rise and fall. Maybe you should have bought a magazine. Waiting for death is always so boring. You consider balancing things on his chest, a game to pass the time. You think about who will actually exist in the world for you once he is gone.

You’ve not seen him in more than nine years, a few calls, a few postcards but you’ve not actually seen him since Carolyn almost shot him. But knowing he is out there just in case was sometimes a nice thought. 

His eyes open and he looks at you. 

“You look older.”

You snort. “That is what your asshole daughter said.”

He sort of shrugs, “She is an asshole.”

“And so are you.” You don’t say it with any spite at all.

“Yes.”

There’s a weird feeling in your throat. You don’t deal with this sort of death. You stand up abruptly and pick up the chart again.

“You’re going to die.” You tell him

“I did warn you.”

“It’s going to be painful you know?”

He barks out a laugh, less forceful than you remember.

“I know.”

That tightness in your throat again. You sort of thought that you must have experienced all the shitty emotions that it is possible to by now. Doesn’t life have a funny way of surprising you.

“Come and sit down.”

There a part of you, a part from before which wants to disobey. You do as he asks.

“You aren’t working any more?” He asks carefully.

“No.”

He smiles a bit, his eyes flicker briefly to your ring.

“And you are married? Eve?” 

The throat feeling is back. 

“I was, am, I don’t know, Eve...she’s not....not for a long time.”

You don’t talk about this. You told Jess she died. Better that that the truth that you weren’t enough to calm her restlessness.

He puts a clammy hand on top of yours. He’s the first person to touch you in months. You resist the urge to recoil.

“She’ll come around.”

You snort. “She’s an asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Have some faith. She’ll come around.”

You don’t say anything for a minute.

“Why am I here?”

He grins. His teeth are more yellow than you remember. 

“I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

“I’m fine. I’m always ok.”

He gives you a look. 

“Irina will be fine. She’s always been steady. You....you don’t always take bad news very well.”

Rude.

“A little presumptuous to think I’d find your death bad news.”

“Villanelle.” It’s a reprimand. It doesn’t grate in the way you’d have expected. It’s nice to think someone cares enough to correct your behaviour again. 

You shrug a sort of apology which he seems to accept.

“So, tell me what you are going to do.”

“When?”

“With your life.”

Ah. Well that is the question. First you filled the time with murder, then you filled it with Jess. Now you don’t really know.

“I could .... open a nail bar?”

He smiles. “Tell me about it?”

“Umm. It could be called Villanails?”

“That’s a shit name.”

You laugh and then feel inexplicably sad.

“Hey.” The clammy hand is back on yours.

“Don’t be sad about this. I’m an old man who was never as kind to you as I could have been. This,” he gestures at himself in the bed, “ this is nothing. You will be fine. A flesh wound only, you’ll see.”

You nod. He hasn’t really been good to you. Often used you for his own ends regardless of what it might mean for you. He facilitated all the damage caused by all that death you brought . But you’ve never been lucky enough to love people who don’t hurt.

“I could....” you pause uncertainty blocking your words. “I could do it. Make it painless. If you like.”

There’s an intensity in his gaze.

“No.”

“I’ve done it before.”

“I know.”

“I’m kind of great at it actually. It’s been a while but I’m sure it’s like riding a bike. I could-“

“Villanelle. No.” The warning in his voice is back.

“It will be painful if you don’t let me.”

He huffs out a breath.

“I know.”

“Why did you ask me to come if not for that?” 

It’s his turn to look sad.

“If you want to kill people again. That’s ok. But if not that’s ok too. I just wanted to know that you’ll be alright.”

You nod and look away.

“I’m going to build a house.” You didn’t plan the words. 

He smiles, warm and genuine. Or as genuine as you’ve known him to be.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.” At first it was just a fun game, drawing the plans, choosing the furniture. But saying it out-loud to him now you know that you are going to do it.

He asks you to describe it to him and you do. He drifts off back to sleep after a while.

You sit in silence. Death has never been like this for you. Slow and still. It’s kind of nice. 

You could still do it. There are pillows neatly stacked on a chair next to a wardrobe. It wouldn’t be too difficult. Even the grip of his clammy fingers was weak. 

You won’t though. 

You don’t think you’ll ever kill anyone again.

That’s a weird thought. 

You’ve not had that before. 

You didn’t think it after you killed your mother. You didn’t think it after you killed Rhian. You didn’t think it the last time you sent Eve a message. 

So that means that you mean it? Is that right? Is that how people work? It’s the sort of problem that she would have helped you with. 

You take out your phone. You’ve had an infinite number of burners in the last seven years. All with the same number saved. 

You think of years ago, before everything, the months between Rome and Glasgow. Her voice was always a few key strokes away. All those times your thumb hovered. 

You could do it now, just like you could all the time’s before.

You put your phone away.

“She’ll come around.” He’d said. 

It’s probably the kindest thing he’s ever said to you. Trust him to leave it till his death bed. 

He’s still sleeping. 

You reach out and let your fingers wrap around his. A flesh wound, he said. Probably. That doesn’t mean that it won’t hurt. You allow yourself a moment to indulge your sadness. You swipe at a handful of tears.

You put on your coat, collect your bag and steel yourself to keep going. 

Just a flesh wound. You’re ok. You take a breath. Then another. 

“Goodbye.” You tell him. 

You look back once before closing the door and then you leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late kick off today. I was late home last night and this required another complete rewrite. 
> 
> Also, I don’t think my toe is broken, but a lot of moaning about it lead to a dinner out of my choosing last night. I should almost break bones more often.


	14. The worst thing that I ever did

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we’re at Betty. 
> 
> You guys did want the Eve and Sarah making up chapter?
> 
> Have I read the room right?

She’s got some strange habits.

You probably should have expected that. She’s not had a real family, she’s not had a lot of friends, and no real relationships. She’s not had the rub of other people to help to smooth the edges.

It’s no bad thing.

Mostly.

She’s interesting because of it and a lot of it is really quite charming.

Like when she has at least two different drinks with every meal, a lot of the time she has more. When questioned she pointed out that it’s what you’d do in a restaurant. Good point, you supposed.

She buys an ice cream almost every time she leaves the house. You mentioned it to her one day whilst you sat side by side, legs dangling over the harbour wall. Her response was a simple “Why wouldn’t I?”

Well. Yes. Again, a good point.

But it’s not all cute little eccentricities.

Sometimes it’s this.

You’re trying to gather the coordination to get your legs to move you from the bed into the bathroom before you fall asleep, exhausted from the unbelievable orgasm she’s just given you.

But next to you, you can feel her getting....antsy. That’s a good word for it.

A bit fidgety. A bit weird.

You know what’s coming.

The first time it happened you’d collapsed on her chest, a slight burn in your jaw and ache in you fingers and wrist. She was breathing hard and still coming down when her fingers started to absently comb through your hair.

You’d almost drifted off when she started speaking.

“I killed a man at his daughter’s wedding once. They’d chosen terrible colours on the little napkin things that go in pockets, what are they called?”

“Pocket squares.” You responded, still a bit dazed at the turn this had taken.

“Pocket squares. Huh. Good name for them.”

You thought that was it. No such luck.

“I lured him outside once everyone had gone into the church, gutted him on the steps and left him there for the wedding party to find when they opened the doors.”

“Oh right.” Because what else were you meant to say when you hands and mouth were still covered in her and she says that to you?

She shifted a bit under you.

“I just thought you should know.”

“Oh. Ok. Thanks.”

It became a thing after that. Little anecdotes of her casual cruelty tossed out in the fading glow of orgasm. Not every time but normally when it was more...emotionally intense? Is that that right way to describe it?

Something of nothing kisses on the sofa which end with her coming in a rush with your thigh pressed tight between legs might not earn it.

But declarations of love choked out with your foreheads pressed together, coming all the while your eyes hold hers, that’ll do it.

So yeah. It’s a bit strange.

It’s not a kinky thing. She doesn’t seem to derive any pleasure from it. Sex finishes, she’ll start to cuddle you, then she’ll get all weird and anxious and fiddly, she’ll say something like this, you’ll listen and then it’s done and you go back to cuddling.

Strange habits, like you said.

You plucked up the courage to ask her about it once. The response had been simply, “I don’t want you to forget what I am.”

What is she then? A cold blooded psychopath temporarily playing nice as she basks in your attention? Or a deeply traumatised woman reeling from having been trained to be a killer when she wasn’t much more than a child?

Probably the truth lies somewhere between the two.

“I know what you are.” You told her.

She nodded and was quiet for a while.

“Then you can’t leave me because I did terrible things. You already know that l did them and you’re still here. So you can’t suddenly...not...like me ....because of it.”

Your chest ached.

So small and scared for such a dangerous woman.

“You did terrible things. I know that. I’m not going to leave you. I love you. You know that.”

She nodded, swiped at an eye and then pulled your arm around her before falling asleep.

Once you knew the reason it was a little easier to cope with. You know that the correct response is just to listen.

So you do.

Tonight is nothing particularly special. The sex was excellent, and she’s getting weird.

All perfectly normal.

She takes a steadying breath before starting.

“There was a woman. I saw her and I knew instantly that I had to have her. She seemed accepting of her life. But that wasn’t what I wanted. I watched her, discovered that she was like me-“

You breath stops in your chest.

“-so I knew what buttons to press. So I lured her out. Gradually and deliberately cut away everything tying her to her life before, her husband, her friends, her job, everything. Until all she was left with was me.”

She pauses.

“It’s the worst thing I ever did.”

You turn to her incredulous.

“That is such bullshit”

She looks a bit surprised by your response.

“Jesus, give me some fucking agency in my own life please. Remember I saw you way before you saw me. I’d been chasing you for the best part of two years before Carolyn offered to pay me for what I’d been doing at home for free. I ruined my marriage because I didn’t want to stop looking at you. I drifted away from my friends. None of that was you. These were my choices. Not something you forced me into.”

You’re on a roll now, because honestly how patronising to be put in the same category as the father of the bride gutted on the church steps.

“If you want to apologise for something, how about that gross gone off banana in my kitchen or, I don’t know, maybe for when you shot me? You’ve never said sorry for that, did you know that?”

She’s looking a bit sheepish now.

“I thought it was implied..”

“Why-? Why would it be implied?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

You sigh and rub a hand over your face.

“You haven’t tricked me here or lured me or whatever, I’m here because I chose to be. I chose you, and this. No one forced me.”

She doesn’t meet your eyes.

“You don’t need to keep doing this.” You tell her.

She turns then. Still flushed from what you’d been doing minutes before, things that seem much further away now.

“I know what you’ve done. You can’t shock me with these stories. You can tell me if you need to, but not for the reason you said before. I’m not going to leave you.”

She turns away again, nods at the ceiling.

“You chose to give up those things from your old life then. Ok, fine. But I will make it up to you. I will make it worth it. Ok?”

You turn on you side and encourage her to snuggle closer. “You don’t need to do anything more than we’ve been doing.”

She swipes a hand across her face. You recognise the gesture. She doesn’t like you seeing her tears, so you don’t comment. She turns her back and pulls your arm over her.

You’re both quiet for a while before something occurs to you.

“How long had you been planning that speech?”

She takes a moment before responding.

“Weeks.”

The begrudging answer makes you smile.

“And how do you think it went?”

“Not the way I’d hoped”

You tighten your arm around her and laugh into the skin of her shoulder.

“Sorry, baby.”

“Oh shut up.”

You gently move her hair aside so you can press a kiss to the nape of her neck.

She sighs at the gesture.

“Eve?”

You murmur an acknowledgement.

“I am sorry I shot you.”

“Yeah. I know. It was implied.”

———-/———-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, don’t be silly, it was never going to be that.
> 
> I don’t think what Eve did to Sarah makes even the top 10 worst things she’s done.
> 
> We’re getting perilously close to the end now....feeling nervous yet?


	15. Dreamscapes on the wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 10 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So thankfully for all of us someone far more talented than me already wrote These Mortifying Ordeals which is, of course, the correct fic for this song. 
> 
> So I’ve deliberately steered clear of the whole ‘I’d die for you in secret' thing, and hit Eve POV. Who needs that sort of competition?
> 
> So I guess what I’m saying is thanks for reading this but also…..go and read that. 
> 
> Immediately

You have been carrying it around in your pocket for weeks now. Its very presence has been making you nervous. Your own fault really, you did buy the damn thing.

Its always there now. Its not in a drawer. Its not in a cupboard. Its in your pocket. No matter whatyou’re wearing, it’ll be in a pocket somewhere. These facts annoy you regardless of whether or not they are of your own making.

It came about one afternoon in a town about an hour inland from Huchet. She wanted to go and look at an antique market that an old woman from the village had mentioned to her. Old people seem to love her. Another weird thing you now know about her.

So you drove and she was giddy with excitement the whole way. After almost a year the child like enthusiasm is still charming.

She found an antique sword shop because…what other sort of shop would naturally draw her eye? She treated it like one of your trips to Paris to replenish her wardrobe.

_“Eve, which one accentuates my eyes?”_

_“Do you think that the rubies on the hilt are a little much?”_

A ceremonial sword from the Boer War matched her eyes and the ruby hilt was deemed not to be too much.

Then she found the muskets.

You told her you’d be back later and went out into the market. It was less like the Antiques Road Show than you imagined which was a bit disappointing. There were a lot of copper pots and wicker baskets.

Then you walked into an old jewellery shop and it was there, sitting behind glass. It was quite plain, a small diamond. Something about it made you pause. You looked at it and the same thing that made you stop also made you buy it. You didn’t haggle. You just paid the lady behind the counter and put the little silk drawer string bag into your pocket.

That is where it has remained. You don’t know what happened to the sword. Better not to ask.

It is making you nervous. It was a ridiculous thing to buy. She’ll probably hate it. The ring too plain. The convention too boring. Both just a social construct which changes little on a day to day basis. You knew all that but you bought it anyway, you carry it around regardless.

You stand at your bedroom window and watch her sitting outside below. It suits her, this life. Probably more than it suits you. You had been still for a long time, its still relatively new for her.

Most mornings she’s up before you, she’ll bring back breakfast and a newspaper and sit outside until you get up. She’s content with lazy mornings, a walk or swim or something similar in the day and then a snuggle on the sofa in the evening. Its all very simple.

Its the same thing you found stifling with Niko. You’d be lying if you said that there wasn’t some part of you which fears that those same feelings of claustrophobia will come for you here too. You don’t feel it now, but how long do you ever allow yourself to be happy? 

Regardless its probably what she needs though. Stability. Routine. Calm.

You’ve lived out here almost a year now and really its only just starting to become clear quite what damage has been done over the course of her life. Looked through the prism of all those experiences its not hugely surprising that her version of love looks so different to what might be expected conventionaly.

So what she needs now is stability. She needs you to stay. She needs you to love her. You want to be able to do that. Maybe that’s why you bought it.

The mornings are taking longer to warm up now and for a woman raised in Russia, she really feels the cold. You go downstairs and grab a folded blanket hanging from the back of the sofa.

You know what she needs and maybe the ring is a means to give that to her, but maybe its also a reason to hold back. Its a thought that has darkened the back of your mind more and more lately. What if you were right? Can this calm last? Can you really spend the rest of your lives like this? Or sooner or later will one of you get bored and start prodding at the other in the way that neither of you could resist before?

You walk down the steps and over the carpet of pine needles. You wrap the blanket around her shoulders and press a kiss to the crown of her head. She reaches for and pulls on your hand.

“Sit with me.” You can’t tell whether she’s telling or asking. There’s not too much difference with her.

She opens out the blanket and you shuffle up next to her. You rest your head on her shoulder and she closes the blanket around you both.

“Morning.”

“Morning.”

These silences don’t help. These silences are when you can feel it burning a hole in your pocket. When the words feel that much closer to the surface.

“You’re being weird.” She says suddenly.

“Right now?”

“Sure, but also all the time. You keep looking at me. Not in a sexy way.”

Have you? You hadn’t realised.

“Oh.”

“Have I done something?”

Fuck.

“No! No. I’ve just been thinking a lot I guess.”

You feel her nod.

“I guess I am a bit…tricky…sometimes. To be with I mean-“

Oh Jesus.

“No. No, not like that. I’ve just been thinking about the future.”

“Oh?”It’s a question you realise.

“It can’t always be like this you know.”

“Like what?”

“This.” You gesture around you and the blanket falls away from your back slightly.

“You know, hearts and flowers and sunshine.”

“Well, yeah, obviously.” She answers as if you had suggested something completely stupid.

“So when this ends what are we going to do?” You ask.

She stiffens a bit and you realise your mistake.

“Not our...” you flounder for the word.

“Relationship?”

“Yeah, not that. When things stops being so....easy.”

She shrugs.

“You need stability, and calm and love. What about when we start not getting along?”

She gives you an amused look. “God you make me sound like a commercial for a sad looking dog charity.”

“Sorry.”

She waves a hand dismissively.

“Everyone needs those things. You give me some of them. I don’t expect all of it all the time. Anyway, we don’t get on some of the time now and that can be nice too, don’t you think?”

“You don’t think we get on?” You hate that you sound a bit hurt.

She laughs gently despite that.

“You’re kidding? Last week you pushed me off the Kayak because I pissed you off. Then we didn’t speak for like five hours? It’s fine. We fight, we talk, we fuck. It’s nice. When things get more tricky we can do the same thing about that.”

She makes it sound simple. Have a problem. Talk about the problem. Reach a resolution. Fuck. You desperately want to believe that it will be as simple as that.

“Stop being all mature.”

She grins and pulls the blanket around your shoulders as she folds you back into her side. You bend your knee and the metal in your pocket digs hard into the skin of your leg.

“It’s never been easy for us, right? But here we are. It will be shit again too, obviously. But we’ll get back here again. It’s just how it goes.”

You don’t remember taking it from your pocket. But it’s hidden in your closed fist.

“You sound so sure.”

Her lips press your temple.

“I am”

You remember now how young she is.

You fucked things up with Niko. You don’t want to do the same to her. You want to give her everything she wants, anything that she needs. Did you love Niko like this once? You don’t remember.

It’s got to be now. What you can offer might not be perfect. But it’s hers. All of it. There is something pulling the words from you, you couldn’t keep them in if you tried.

“Marry me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains my four step plan to relationship success. So far it has a success rate of 1 out of (a lady never tells) number of times. I like those odds.
> 
> Also to address the whole 1 v 2 rings debate in the comments. There are two rings, but I just imagined that Eve probably wouldn't have bought herself one before this. So I guess you could assume that it's this chapter, then Invisible String and then they go ring shopping for Eve. Urgh, that would have been fun to write. How selfish of Swifty not to foresee this and write a song solely for this purpose. Or at least to have rereleased Paper Rings as a bonus track. How unreasonable.
> 
> In other news, I had planned to make progress on the finale(s) last night as I was home alone (+sleeping daughter), regrettably I bought an excellent bottle of wine and watched Bring It On whilst eating yum yums. 
> 
> My apologies.


	16. Ash from your fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4 years + 3 months

You and Anna communicated through letters.

Yours left taped into the back of exercise books handed in for marking, and hers tucked away neatly when the books came back. It made sense at the time, you could hardly phone her with that oaf of a husband always hanging around, and when you were alone together there was never enough time for you to say everything you wanted.

So when you were in prison it made sense to keep writing to her.

It was a good way to keep your french nimble, and if it had the added benefit of making you feel like you were still connected to her in some way then that was a bonus.

So maybe it’s not a huge shock to find that you’d choose this means to still communicate with Eve. You and her never had letters. Not really. You wrote but she never responded. The language you shared was always this. Violence, blood, death.

You perch on the edge of the desk in someone’s home office. The man opposite you is slowly bleeding out from where you slid your knife into his chest. Urgh. Not your preference. It’s an effort to get the knife between the ribs at the right angle. But these deaths aren’t for you, you haven’t killed for you since before she left. They aren’t completely for her either, strictly speaking. Or maybe they are. It’s hard to draw that line at the best of times.

Ostensibly this one is for Gemma Butler. In front of you is Mr Butler. The instruction was to make it slow, something about him draining the life out of her blah blah blah.

How tacky.How obvious. This is what you are reduced to.

So lacking in imagination. Surely forcing the one who hurt you to watch whilst you ruin yourself is the better revenge? Although you concede that only works when they are still looking.

Anyway.

It pays the bills and it lets you send your message. The same one every time.

Ok, so it’s not really talking but whatever, because it is nice feeling like you are still talking to her. Or actually it’s sad. But sadness is all that you have left of her now and you aren’t ready to let it go. Maybe you never will be. It doesn’t really matter, surely something of her, even this, is better than nothing at all.

The only down side is that to do this you have to wait till they are dead. A chore when it’s ones like this. You approach him and can see his chest still rising and falling, albeit more slowly now.

You remember doing this before and feeling a rush of power, control and then quiet. Then you remember the anguish and self loathing.

Now there’s nothing. Is this what she imagined when she said you’d consume each other? Stripping you of everything except your sadness?

It sounded nice when she said it as you danced. Maybe it is still sort of nice. You have nothing further to lose. There is something comforting in that.

When this started again you were angry. It was a good release. Body after body, one for every significant wound you had inflicted on each other. You meticulously cleaned the blood from your ring and revelled in the thought of her seeing the crime scene photos. You thought maybe she’d start looking for you again, and when that thought became hope that you could capture her attention again you ruthlessly snuffed it out and sort out the next body.

Now though that anger has faded.

Now you’re just sad.

You probably prefer this to the anger. It’s much less confusing.

Sadness you know how to exist with. A near constant in your life, to a greater or lesser extent. There’s none of the exhaustion of being angry. Sadness just sits with you, there is no need to work to keep it burning like with the anger. The sadness just is.

Mr Butler is gurgling in that tell tale way, same old, same old.

You close your eyes and wait, and for the first time you give breath to the thought you successfully stifled until now; she’s not watching.

So is this going to be it? Performing for an audience no longer interested?

You run a hand across your forehead. God you’re so tired. It’s been a little over two years and fourteen bodies. Now you’ve been alone again for as long as you had her.

You could stop. If she’s not coming back then you could spare yourself all this. Hurting yourself is only worth it if it hurts her too. If not then you might as well just go back to New York.

You could get a girlfriend. That new Straight Haired Eve is entertaining enough.She could be your girlfriend. You’re a catch. If Eve doesn’t want you then there are loads of others who would. You could give Straight Haired Eve everything the real one didn’t want. Minus a few of your less savoury extra curricular activities anyway. Maybe you’ll do that.

Mr Butler has finally stopped gurgling. Your draw your knife and cut away at the ring finger. Your repeated message to her.

You try to remember what you wrote in your last letter to Anna but you’ve lost the memory in the years since. You wonder if one day you’ll lose this too.

Moving around the desk you pull a sheet of paper from the printer and try to find a pen.

What should you say to her? That her love hurt you worse than your humanity being gradually stripped away by years of death, loneliness and boredom? That you’ll never quite be able to believe her love was a lie? That you’ll treasure the pain she caused you because it’s all you have left? Or maybe that you still believe what she said to you in bed that afternoon, and what you promised her one night amongst the mountains and lakes.

That all seems a little dramatic. Surely it’s all implied, you told her that once too, in a different life.

You know what to say. The old words.

You run your fingers over the paper. Maybe she will come to find you, maybe she’ll ghost her fingers over the page in the same away.

Another almost touch to add to the list of almosts.

Placing the note next to Mr Butler you look down at the scene, you try to imagine her looking at the photos.

Was your last letter to Anna a goodbye?

You don’t think so.

Is this?

No. Probably not, but you say it all the same.

_Sorry, baby._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh do I feel sick. 
> 
> Courage to the sticking place, colours to the mast, all manner of things have to be pinned to stuff now.
> 
> I am going to do some management of expectations now...I may choose to sit on this decision for a day or two. I won't leave you hanging I promise. Its just this has been such a lot of work that I just want to make sure I get it right. Plus you lot have been so darn fun about it all that I want to get it right for you too.
> 
> Deep breath now, time to be brave.


	17. No, not without you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1 year + 11 months

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was pizza you ordered, right?

“This is a stupid idea”

You tell her whilst not even bothering to look up from the Korean for Dummies book.

“No it isn’t”

“They aren’t even real”

“They are real. I showed you the article, there were pictures.” She replies.

“You know that photoshop is a thing right?”

“Shut up and watch will you.”

You sigh theatrically and closing your book, laying back to watch the sky above you. As predicted you see nothing.

“I hate camping” You tell her.

“I know you do” She responds

“Why did you rent a whole house if we are only going to camp in the garden?”

“Have you ever been to an actual campsite? It’s full of kids and old people.”

Fair point. You need a new way to win, a way to draw her back into the comfort of the rented cottage behind you.

You roll onto your side allowing your hair to fall over your shoulder and slightly across your face in the way you know she likes. You reach out and trace the skin on her arm with a finger tip. You shift closer and allow your tits to press against her a little but not too much.

“You know-“

“No.”

“Urgh. You are the worst.” You roll onto your back.

“Im not missing the northern lights even if the alternative is-“ She waves a hand vaguely in the direction of your body.

Rude.

You huff out a breath.

“You know there are about a billion other countries that we could have visited where we actually would have seen the stupid northern lights.”

She’s quiet for a time, and the response when it comes lacks the sharpness you have grown used to.

“But you love it here.”

You do. No one was more surprised than you to find that out. Once, about five years ago you killed a woman here. Then you stayed a further two weeks. It was unlike you, Konstantin even said so. It was particularly unlike the you that you were then. You told her about that a while ago and were surprised when she suggested this, surprised that she remembered.

It’s the contradictions that you liked, that you still like. The sharp edged mountains amongst rolling hills. The muddy fields and ice clear water. The tourist filled towns next to desolate shorelines. It felt complicated yet still. Plus there are lots of good ice cream parlours and a museum about Peter Rabbit. 

She reaches over and links her fingers through yours as you lay on the blanket beside each other. Her hair brushes the side of your face and its the closest you’ve felt to ok in months.

“Are you going to leave me?” You know where the question came from, but you are less sure about the origin of the courage to ask it.

She stills next to you.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to.” Her hand grip yours tighter.

You believe her.

It’s the first time she’s talked about whatever it is that’s making her so restless

“Can I do anything?”

“No.” She swipes at her eyes.

Being powerless is a funny thing. It feels good when you are being pulled toward a perfect autumn day drenched in golden sunlight, but much different when everything is falling through your fingers.

“Will you be alright?” You ask her.

Another swipe of her fingers against her face. 

“No.”

You sigh roughly.

“You are stupid. Why would you go if you aren’t going to be ok.”

She laughs. “I honestly have no idea.”

No one says anything for a while.

“Would you be ok?” She asks, her voice quieter than usual.

There is a choice to be made here. You could give her an out, tell her you’ll be strong or some other bullshit, or you can try to hold her to you with threats of your bloody and brutal retribution. But you made a promise to yourself that you’d fight to keep this, that you wouldn’t let her take it from you easily.

“No. Not for a while at least.”

You turn to see her scrunching her eyes closed, it’s a thing she does as if to physically stop her tears. You could never stand to see her cry. Urgh. There goes that then. You used to be able to flicker between cold and warm without any problem, even with her. It’s a version of yourself you miss more and more these days.

“But I would be ok. Eventually. I bounce. I am always alright.”

She makes a sound which is almost a laugh. “How did I ever think you were good at pretending?”

“I could say it in a different accent if you like?”

She does laugh then.

You lift your arm and when she looks at you questioningly, you encourage her closer. It’s not a familiar position. More often than not it’s you on her chest. Maybe you should do this more often, her weight against you feels nice.

You want to beg her to stay. 

You don’t and instead tell her; “I don’t want you to go. I’ll do whatever you want to keep you but if you do go I don’t want you to be sad forever. I know that my emotions can be ...changeable, but right now I mean that.”

Her fingers tighten against your skin but she doesn’t say anything. You feel more exposed than you can ever remember and the urge to row back is overwhelming.

“I mean, it might come down to it and I’ll go on a killing spree but right now its true.” 

She exhales and turns to press her face against your chest.

She turns slightly but her voice is still muffled. “God I hate that you are so fucking good to me.”

You bark out a laugh. “If it helps, on the drive up here I spilt that milkshake on purpose because you pissed me off?”

She laughs too. “I was being an asshole. We should have used the M6 toll.”

You press a kiss to her forehead. 

“You ever think you should just trust that I’m right about stuff?” You ask her gently teasing.

“All the time.” She answers quite seriously.

“Do you still believe that we are meant to be together?” She asks it quietly again.

“I never doubt it.”

“God you’re annoying.”

You grin and kiss the top of her head. “I think every time something has happened that seemed too much, like there was no way back, we’ve still found a way back to this. You could leave tomorrow and I still think something would pull us back, or push us forward, or whatever, but it would be toward each other.” 

You pause and then feel a smile cross your face.

“Maybe one day we’ll be old ladies who retire up here, sitting still for 10 hours a day before arguing over who should do the dishes.”

She snorts, it’s rough and undignified and the rush of affection is almost too much.

“We’re not living anywhere that doesn’t have a dishwasher.”

“Is this a negotiation?” You ask.

“Isn’t everything?” 

You press a kiss to her head.

“You win, baby.”

She sighs and burrows closer into you, she’s so deep inside you now that to say she’s beneath your skin doesn’t cover it. Whatever happens, whatever she does to fuck you over, however much it hurts when she slips the knife in this time, she’s so deep into you already that you don’t think you’ll ever truly be without her again. Maybe that’s a nice thought too. 

You look up and there’s a vague haze in the sky. 

“Baby, look up.”

She scrambles away from you, and stands to look toward the sky.

She silently watches it flutter in the air for a while.

“It looks like light pollution.”

You laugh. “I tried to tell you.”

Then she’s laughing in the semi maniacal way that she does sometimes. Your chest aches.

“That was shit.”

“Yup.” You pop the ‘p’ at the end.

She turns to you. “I’ll love you forever, you know that right?” 

You know then that she’s made up her mind. You smile and tell her the truth, “I know.”

You hope beyond anything that you remember how genuine this moment feels. That even at your worst you remember this and you know’ll that you’ll never truly be without her again. Maybe that’s all just sentimental bullshit but it’s a side of yourself which you could never escape when it comes to her.

“Do you want to go back and sleep in the cottage?” She asks.

“No, just...come back here and sit with me.” You shift the blanket out from beneath you to wrap it around your shoulders and open out your arm to make space for her.

She looks at you with an expression you don’t quite understand but eventually she sits down and allows you to wrap the blanket around you both.

It’s how you sat when she gave you the ring, when she promised you forever. It’s what’s she thinking about too. You’re certain of that.

You take a breath and promise her the same thing, this time whispered into the shell of her ear.

She nods before gripping your hand and pressing her lips to your fingers. The same place as before, the same promise. You repeat the gesture and hope that when she goes, she will always be able to feel this gentle press of your lips against her fingers.

You feel it just the same as you did the first time. A certainty that this is where you are meant to be. Outside and apart from real life, sheltered under a blanket with her.

“Come on.” She says standing up and pulling on your hand.

You look at her questioningly.

“I hate camping. I only suggested it because you were being annoying.”

You grin.

“You’re an asshole.”

She smiles and draws you toward her for a kiss. It’s light and sweet, a balm on all the hurt which exists beneath the surface.

She told you once that you’d either grow old or consume each other, that either way it was forever. You think now she had it wrong, that it isn’t a binary choice. 

Maybe you will end up back here one day, sitting out staring at the mountains, the two of you old and consumed by each other.

For now, at least, that seems like another promise of forever, still such a pretty thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok. So. That’s it. Shit. I don’t think I’ve ever been so anxious about posting something.
> 
> Firstly, with this chapter specifically in mind I need to thank (direct your ire toward) two people. Ewige and Celebrityskin88. Celebrityskin88 because they suggested that the time stamp should be within the preset timeline of 12 years from the bridge, this is a thought that had been nagging at me so thank you for crystalising it. 
> 
> Ewige isn’t actually reading this story, they are busily translating the long way home as we speak but they sent me a message yesterday about Fun as a oneshot and reminded me that it isn’t actually sad. It’s bittersweet. Yeah, ok, they aren’t together. But they are both ok. So all the endings I had written out, and there were more than three as of yesterday afternoon, sort of compromised the position in Fun, and that felt wrong. 
> 
> So yeah, I’ve got version after version of them post Fun but I figured that should be left for you to make a decision on. For those that wanted a happy ending, I hope this chapter gives you some breathing room to find you own post fun existence where Oksana is totally right and they find a way back to each other.
> 
> I will absolutely take questions/rage on any of the above.
> 
> I really want to thank those who took the time to read this or leave kudos. It wasn’t a light read by any stretch and I get that a lot of people would have been put off by that alone. So if you’ve made it this far, thank you for being patient with me.
> 
> To that hardcore group of fifteen or so, who indulged me with comment after comment, I really can’t thank you enough. It’s such a lot of fun to chat and you all helped me work out what I wanted to do with this even though I thought it was mostly pre-drafted.
> 
> Finally I do hope you aren’t all dreadfully cross with me. I can absolutely promise this is my last flirtation with the truly bleak. I don’t think my water bill can take this many thinking/writing baths on a regular basis. So maybe I won’t be so cruel with whatever comes next. Maybe.


End file.
